#omega reader

Another from twelve: you braiding his too-long hair on the cabin porch steps, him scowling at the camera but letting you finish, the sun catching the brunette strands that always refused to stay tame.

A blurry one from sixteen: both of you asleep on the attic pull-out couch after a late-night movie marathon, your head tucked under his chin, his arm slung protectively around you like it was the most natural thing in the world. His mom took the picture quietly and slipped it into the stack later; neither of you ever mentioned it.

Everyone always said you were inseparable. Best friends. Practically siblings.

They never mentioned how his hand sometimes lingered a second too long when he helped you down from the dock, fingers brushing the back of your knee. They never mentioned how you’d catch yourself staring at the line of his jaw when he laughed, sharp, shadowed, the way it flexed when he was trying not to smile too big.

They never mentioned the quiet nights when the rest of the group had gone to bed and you’d stay up talking until the sky lightened, voices low, knees touching on the porch swing, the silence between sentences heavier than words.

Now you’re both twenty-two, back from sophomore year of college, still virgins, still waiting for that first presentation that everyone else got years ago.

Late bloomers, the doctors called it with clinical shrugs. Lucky, your mom called it with a wink, like it was a gift instead of a delay. You both just called it annoying. Friends had heats and ruts in high school, paired off, moved on. You and Bucky stayed the same, safe, platonic, untouched by the biology that rewrote everyone else’s lives. Sometimes you wondered if it was a mercy or a curse.

This summer the families are caravanning to the cabin like always, the annual week of lake swims, bonfires and board games. But Bucky texted you last week, casual as ever.

Bucky 9:56am

Hey. I’ll drive you up early. Beat the traffic, set up the attic real quick, snag the good couch spot before anyone else tries to steal it. Just you and me, no rush, no chaos. Sound good?

Everyone thought it was sweet. Typical Bucky, looking out for you.

You didn’t tell them how your stomach flipped when you read it.

The truck smells like motor oil, pine air freshener, and him, cedar, faint metal, something warm and smoky underneath that always made your head swim a little when you were close.

Windows down the whole way, old pop-punk blasting from speakers that crackle when the bass hits. You sing off-key on purpose just to make him laugh; he rolls his eyes but belts the chorus louder than you, voice rough from disuse but still carrying every note like muscle memory.

Halfway there the road narrows, trees thickening into proper forest, sunlight dappling the cracked windshield in shifting gold patterns. It’s sticky, end-of-June hot so the AC is useless and the windows stay wide open. You kick off your sneakers, prop bare feet on the dash. He pretends to hate it, mutters something about fingerprints but never actually tells you to move them. Never has.

The playlist loops to that one song from high school, the one you used to scream-sing in his bedroom until his mom banged on the wall and threatened to unplug the stereo. You grin, unbuckle and before he can finish saying “don’t-” you’re already leaning halfway out the passenger window.

Arms spread like wings, hair whipping wild in the wind, you arch your back into the rush like you’re flying. The loose cropped tank stretches tight across your chest, wind molding it to every curve. No bra, too hot and it’s just Bucky. The hem flips up with a sudden gust, flashing the smooth underside of your breast, the soft curve where skin meets ribcage, glowing in the sun.

“Jesus Christ!” Bucky’s voice cracks high, hand shooting out to fist the front of your denim shorts like you’re about to tumble onto the road. “You’re gonna fall out! Get back in here!”

You laugh, loud and free over the rush of air, swinging your head side to side. “Buck, it’s fine! Just drive! Feels amazing- come on, live a little!”

He can’t stop looking.

Knuckles white on the wheel, eyes flicking between the empty backroad and you: arched spine, wind-plastered tank, nipples pebbled from the breeze, that accidental strip of underboob. His throat works hard. Heat floods his face, then surges lower, cock twitching painfully against his zipper, sudden and insistent.

“Fuck- okay, okay, just- get in before I crash us both,” he stutters, voice pitching like he’s sixteen again. “You’re- Jesus, you’re killing me here.”

You duck back inside, cheeks flushed from wind and laughter, shirt falling back down but not before he steals one last glimpse. You flop against the seat, still grinning.

“What? It’s hot. You used to let me do that all the time when we were younger.”

“Yeah,” he mutters, shifting in his seat, trying to angle his hips away from view, “when you were eighteen and flat as a board.” He swallows hard. “Now you’re… you’re not.”

You blink at him, teasing edge softening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” He cranks the broken AC to full blast, praying the weak puff of cool air kills the throbbing erection before you notice.

You do notice, the fidgeting, the hand he keeps low on the wheel, the flush crawling up his neck to his ears.

“Buck?” Soft, teasing but gentle. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine. Just- road’s bumpy.” He clears his throat twice. “Don’t do that again unless you want me to drive us into a tree.”

You laugh again, crank the music louder, oblivious. Or pretending to be.

He spends the next twenty minutes white-knuckling the wheel, thighs clenched, reciting engine specs and batting averages under his breath to will the hardness away. It only half works.

Every glance sideways shows the faint outline of your nipples through the thin tank, the way your shorts ride high on your thighs, skin still flushed from the wind. And something else, your scent on the breeze, sweet and warm, just starting to bloom like honeysuckle after rain. His own scent sharpens without him noticing, cedar turning darker, smokier, edged with something desperate and metallic.

The cabin appears at the end of the dirt road, quiet and empty, families still hours away. Pine needles crunch under the tires as he parks.

You hop out first, stretch tall, arms overhead. The cropped tank rides up again, another flash of underboob, innocent and devastating in the late-afternoon light. Bucky stays in the driver’s seat an extra minute, head dropped to the wheel, breathing hard through his mouth, willing his body to calm down.

He tells himself it’s nothing. Just the heat. Just old habits. Just the cabin pulling old memories to the surface.

But deep in his gut, something ancient and hungry stirs for the first time, low, insistent, like a door creaking open after years of being locked.

That night the attic room feels smaller than ever. Shared pull-out couch, same as always, same faded quilt, same creak when you shift.

You toss and turn, low-grade fever creeping under your skin, making the sheets feel too heavy, too rough. Bucky lies rigid beside you, pretending to sleep, pretending he doesn’t feel the air thickening between you, pretending he doesn’t catch the faint, sweet shift in your scent every time you roll closer.

Pretending he doesn’t already know what’s coming.

Because he does.

He’s felt it building for years, in stolen glances, in the way his pulse jumped when you hugged him goodbye before college, in the hoodie he never gave back because it still smelled like you. He’s ignored it, buried it, told himself it was nothing.

But tonight, lying inches from you in the dark, the lie feels thinner than the quilt between you.

And something inside him is finally starting to crack.

The morning sun filters through the pine trees outside the cabin windows, casting long shadows across the worn wooden floors.

You wake up tangled in the sheets of the pull-out couch, the attic room still dim and stuffy from last night’s humidity.

Bucky’s side of the bed is already empty, neatly made, like he couldn’t sleep either. That low, nagging warmth in your belly lingers, a dull ache that’s been building since the truck ride yesterday.

You blame it on the travel, the excitement, maybe even the greasy diner food you grabbed on the way up. Definitely not anything else. Not the way Bucky’s scent seemed to cling to the pillows, sharper than usual, making your skin feel too tight.

Downstairs, the cabin is alive with the familiar chaos of family vacation mornings. The coffee maker gurgles on the countrr, filling the air with the rich, bitter aroma of coffee. Bacon sizzles in a pan, popping and spitting grease while Bucky’s mom flips slices with a spatula, humming an old tune under her breath.

Your dad is at the table, newspaper spread wide, grumbling about the stock market even on break. Bucky’s sister, Becca, bounces in from the porch, her ponytail swinging, already in her swimsuit with a towel draped over her shoulders.

“It’s already pushing ninety out there,” Becca announces, grabbing a strip of bacon straight from the pan and dodging her mom’s swat. “Lake time before lunch? Come on, we can’t waste this weather!”

Your mom laughs from the sink, rinsing berries. “I’m in. Just slather on the sunscreen, last year you all burned like lobsters.”

Everyone murmurs agreement, the energy shifting to that easy, vacation buzz. Bucky’s dad claps his hands together. “Alright troops, suits on, towels ready. Let’s make it happen.”

You feel a flush creep up your neck at the thought of changing. It’s silly, you’ve all done this a hundred times but something feels different this year. Maybe it’s college making you more self-conscious, or the way Bucky avoided eye contact last night when you both climbed into the shared bed, muttering “night” like it was a chore. You slip into the downstairs bathroom while the others scatter, locking the door with a soft click.

The swimsuit is nothing fancy: a simple navy two-piece from last summer’s clearance rack. High-waisted bottoms that hug your hips comfortably, a triangle top that ties at the neck and back, leaving just enough skin exposed to feel breezy but not exposed.

You’ve worn it to pool parties with college friends, no big deal. But here? With the families? With Bucky? Your reflection in the foggy mirror stares back, cheeks already pink. You tug the strings tighter, adjust the fabric and throw on a loose cover-up before stepping out.

The porch creaks under your flip-flops as you head down to the water, towel slung over your shoulder. The lake sparkles under the high sun, a mirror of blue sky and surrounding pines.

Bucky’s already there, knee-deep in the shallows, fiddling with the dock ladder like it’s the most important task in the world. He’s in plain black trunks, fitted, riding low on his hips, the kind that show off the V of muscle from years of campus gym sessions. His back is to you at first, shoulders broad and tense, the faint scars from old accidents (or that one time he fell off the roof as a kid) catching the light.

He turns when he hears your footsteps on the gravel path. His gaze flicks over you, quick, almost dismissive then snaps away to the water. Then back. Slower this time, lingering on the hem of your cover-up where it brushes your thighs.

“Uh… looks good,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand, the other still gripping the ladder like a lifeline. His voice is rougher than usual, like he swallowed wrong. “I mean- the suit. It’s… new?”

You smile, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in your chest, the way his eyes keep darting back. “Not new. Just haven’t worn it here before. You know, college pool parties and stuff.”

He nods, Adam’s apple bobbing. Doesn’t meet your eyes fully. “Right. Cool. Yeah, makes sense.”

The awkwardness hangs for a second, thick as the humid air, before Becca cannonballs off the dock with a whoop, splashing everyone and breaking the tension. “Last one in’s a rotten egg!”

The group piles in with shouts and splashes, your parents wading slowly, Bucky’s dad doing an exaggerated belly flop that sends waves rippling. You and Bucky hang back at first, old habits dying hard. You slip off the cover-up, folding it neatly on a rock and wade in together. The water is shockingly cool against your heated skin, goosebumps prickling up your arms as it laps at your calves, then thighs, then waist.

It starts innocent enough, like every summer before. Bucky splashes you first, a light spray across your face. You retaliate with a full palm-skim, drenching his hair. He laughs, real and bright, grabbing your wrists to stop you. “Oh, it’s on now!”

You twist free, diving under to escape, and the playfight escalates: him dunking you under when you least expect it, you jumping on his back to pull him down.

At one point, you climb onto his shoulders for an improvised chicken fight against Becca and her boyfriend, your thighs clamped around his neck, his hands steadying your calves. He stumbles on purpose, sending you both toppling in a tangle of limbs and laughter. Underwater, bubbles swirl around you, his body brushing yours in the chaos, chest to your back, his arm looping around your waist to pull you up.

You surface gasping, sides hurting from laughing. “Truce?” you wheeze, treading water close to him, faces inches apart.

“Never,” he says but he’s grinning, that real, boyish smile you haven’t seen since high school, water dripping from his lashes. For a moment, it’s just you two, like kids again, the world narrowed to the lake and the sun on your skin.

But then you swim to the dock to climb out, needing a breather. Water streams off you in rivulets, the suit clinging like a second skin, dark fabric plastered transparent in places, nipples pebbled hard from the cold, every curve outlined unmistakably. You haul yourself up onto the warm wood, dripping puddles, and turn to call him over. “Come on, slowpoke! Race you to the cabin?”

Bucky’s still in the water. Staring.

Not subtle at all. Not even pretending anymore. His eyes trace a slow path: the line of your throat where water beads, down to your chest heaving from the swim, over the dip of your stomach, the way the wet bottoms hug your hips and thighs. His jaw flexes, lips parting slightly like he’s forgotten how to breathe. Color creeps up his neck and he dives under fast, disappearing beneath the murky surface as if trying to drown whatever thought just crossed his mind.

You sit on the edge of the dock, legs dangling in the water, pretending you didn’t notice the heat in his gaze. But your skin prickles with awareness, a flush that’s not just from the sun blooming across your chest. What’s his deal? you think, kicking your feet lazily. It’s just a swimsuit. Just me.

He surfaces a minute later, hair slicked back dark and wet, breathing harder than the swim warrants. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets flying. “Sorry,” he calls over, voice strained. “Thought I saw a fish or something. Big one.”

You roll your eyes, smirking to hide the butterflies. “Smooth, Barnes. Real smooth.”

The group starts drifting toward lunch, parents complaining about hunger, Becca towing her boyfriend by the hand. “Come on, you two! Food’s ready!”

You climb up from the dock, grab your towel from the rock and head up the shaded path to dry off. Behind a cluster of trees for a bit of privacy, you peel off the wet top and bottoms, modest enough with everyone else distracted. The air feels good on your bare skin for a second, cooling the persistent warmth in your core. You wrap the towel around yourself snugly and drape the suit over a flat rock in the sun to dry, bottoms folded neatly on top.

Bucky stays in the water longer than anyone, even after the others have toweled off and headed inside. When he finally emerges, he’s shivering despite the heat, arms crossed tight over his chest like he’s holding himself together. Water washes down his torso, catching in the faint trail of hair below his navel. He walks past the rock where your suit dries without looking at it or at least, that’s what it seems. But you catch the twitch of his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating.

You don’t think much of it then. You head inside for lunch, sandwiches and cold lemonade around the big oak table, everyone talking over each other about plans for the afternoon hike or board games if it rains. Bucky joins late, hair still damp, in fresh shorts and a t-shirt that clings a little too much. He sits across from you, quiet, picking at his food. His knee bounces under the table. When your eyes meet, he looks away fast, muttering something about needing more mustard.

Later that afternoon, the cabin quiets down. Parents napping on the porch swing, gentle snores mingling with the hum of cicadas. Becca and her boyfriend head off for a hike, backpacks slung low. You’re on the hammock out back, book open on your lap but not really reading, your mind keeps replaying the lake, Bucky’s stare, the accidental brushes underwater. That warmth in your belly flares again, insistent now, making you shift uncomfortably.

That’s when you hear it: the soft click of the downstairs bathroom door locking.

Inside, Bucky leans back against the sink, the cool porcelain a shock against his overheated skin. His heart slams so hard it echoes in his ears, a frantic drumbeat of shame and want.

Your bikini bottoms are balled tight in his fist, he’d snatched them from the rock when no one was looking, during the chaos of unpacking the cooler for lunch. His palm had brushed the damp fabric, and it was like electricity, heart in his throat the whole time, convinced someone would turn and see.

He shouldn’t do this.

He knows he shouldn’t.

He’s done bad things before, stolen your hoodie from the laundry in college, buried his face in it that night until the scent faded. A hair tie from your backpack once, twisted around his wrist like a talisman. But this? This is new territory. Filthier. Wronger.

But the fabric is still damp from the lake, still warm somehow from your body and there’s that faint trace of something new weaving through it, sweet, slick, almost honeyed. Your scent. Not the full bloom of heat yet but the first tentative leak, the prelude that’s been teasing him since the truck ride, since last night in the attic when he lay awake listening to your soft breaths.

With shaking hands, he brings the bottoms to his face. Presses them to his nose. Inhales deep, slow, like he can pull you into his lungs.

“Fuck,” he whispers, voice cracking on the word. “Fuck, I’m sorry. So goddamn sorry.”

The smell crashes over him like a wave, your skin, fresh lake water, sunscreen and that warm, needy undertone that twists something deep in his gut. His cock throbs instantly, straining painfully against his shorts. He shoves them down just enough with his free hand, wraps his fist around himself, already leaking, already desperate.

He strokes fast, too fast, jerky and guilty, the damp fabric still pressed to his mouth like a gag. “I’m so fucked up,” he breathes against the cloth, words muffled and wrecked. “You’re right there… my best friend… and I’m doing this… smelling you like some creep. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

His hips jerk forward into his hand. He bites his lip hard to muffle the groan, tasting blood as he comes hard and sudden, spilling over his fist in hot, shameful pulses that leave him shaking. The bikini bottoms stay pressed to his face the whole time, soaking up the ragged sounds of his breathing, the quiet sob that slips out at the end.

When it’s over, he slumps against the wall, chest heaving, legs weak. Tears prick hot at the corners of his eyes, blurring the tile floor. What the hell is wrong with me? he thinks, staring at the fabric in his hand like it’s evidence. She’s outside reading, trusting me, and I’m… this.

He cleans himself up with wads of toilet paper, hands still trembling. Wipes the bottoms as best he can with a damp cloth from the sink, careful, almost reverent, then unlocks the door and slips quietly back into the house.

The laundry pile is right there in the narrow hallway off the kitchen, a big overflowing basket of beach towels, damp swimsuits, and everyone’s clothes from the day. No one’s around; the house is still quiet, just the low hum of the fridge and the distant sound of crickets outside. He glances over his shoulder once, heart hammering then tucks your bikini bottoms underneath a folded beach towel near the bottom of the pile. Careful. Stealthy. Like nothing ever happened.

But as he walks back outside, the clawing shame doesn’t fade. He can still taste the faint salt of lake water on his tongue. Still feel the phantom weight of your body against his in the water. Still hear his own broken apologies echoing in his head, meaningless now.

And somewhere under his skin, buried deep but stirring stronger, something darker is waking up, something primal that doesn’t care about sorry, about best friends, about right and wrong.

Something that just wants more. And it’s only the first full day at the cabin.

The cabin quiets after dinner in stages, the familiar rhythms of family winding down like a clock ticking toward silence. First the clatter of dishes being stacked in the sink, silverware clinking against plates, the occasional laugh as someone recounts a story from the lake that day.

Then the low murmur of parents saying goodnight on the porch, chairs scraping as they stand, voices fading into the night like echoes. Finally, the creak of floorboards as everyone drifts to their rooms, doors clicking shut one by one, leaving only the hum of crickets and the distant lap of the lake against the shore.

The wind from earlier has died down completely, leaving the air thick and still, heavy with the scent of pine sap and cooling earth. You climb the narrow attic stairs alone, each step feeling heavier than it should, the wood groaning under your weight like it’s protesting the climb.

Your skin feels wrong, too tight, too hot, like someone turned the thermostat up inside your body and forgot to tell you. Sweat beads at the small of your back, even though the night has cooled outside. The low ache from earlier has spread, subtle and unrelenting, low in your belly, between your thighs, a persistent throb that makes every brush of fabric against your skin unbearable, electric.

You tell yourself it’s just the heat of the day lingering, just exhaustion from swimming and laughing and pretending everything is normal. You’ve had off days before, cramps, fevers, the kind that come and go without explanation. This is nothing new. Nothing to worry about.

You change into an old tank top and soft sleep shorts, loose, familiar, the same ones you’ve worn in this room every summer since you could remember, faded from too many washes, the hem frayed from years of use.

The pull-out couch is already made up, sheets cool against your fevered skin when you slide in, but the relief is fleeting. You leave the small triangular window cracked, hoping the night air will help, a faint breeze whispering through the screen carrying the scent of water and woods. It doesn’t. If anything, it makes the ache sharper, like the coolness is mocking the fire building inside you.

You curl onto your side, knees drawn up, trying to breathe through it. Deep inhales, slow exhales. But each breath pulls in the faint trace of Bucky’s scent from the pillows, cedar and something metallic, lingering from last night. It makes your head swim, the throb between your legs pulse harder. You press your thighs together, bite your lip to stifle a whimper. Just sleep, you think. It’ll be gone in the morning.

Downstairs, Bucky lingers in the kitchen longer than necessary. He rinses the last coffee mug under the faucet, watching the water swirl down the drain like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world. Then he wipes the counter twice, once with a sponge, once with a dish towel, scrubbing at invisible spots until his arms ache. Anything to delay going up those stairs. Anything to avoid the attic, the shared bed, you.

He can smell it already, your scent drifting down the stairs like smoke signals, sweet and syrupy, blooming stronger with every passing minute.

It’s not the full force of heat yet, but it’s close. Close enough that his mouth waters involuntarily, his pulse hammers in his ears, his cock twitches traitorously in his sweatpants, half-hard just from the tease of it.

His own body betrays him too, the rut stirring low in his gut, a restless energy that makes his skin itch, his muscles tense like coiled springs. He grips the edge of the sink until his knuckles ache, staring at his reflection in the dark window above it.

Stay down here, he tells himself, voice a harsh whisper in his mind. Sleep on the couch. Pretend you’re drunk. Pretend you ate something bad. Pretend anything. But his feet move anyway, slow, deliberate, like they’re not listening to him anymore. Up the stairs. Past the creaky third step he’s known since he was ten. To the attic door.

He pauses with his hand on the knob, ear pressed to the wood. Your breathing is uneven inside, shallow pants, soft whimpers you’re trying to muffle into the pillow. He can hear them. Smell them. Feel them in his bones, like a hook pulling him forward.

He opens the door.

The room is dim, lit only by the moonlight slicing through the triangular window, casting long shadows across the slanted ceiling. You’re curled on your side, knees drawn up tight, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold the heat in or keep it from escaping completely. Your hair sticks to your damp forehead in dark strands. Your scent hits him full force now, rich, needy, unmistakable, wrapping around him like a vise.

You don’t look up right away, eyes squeezed shut against another wave of discomfort. “Buck?” Your voice is small, cracked, barely above a whisper.

“Yeah.” He closes the door behind him softly. Locks it without thinking, the click echoing too loud in the quiet. “Couldn’t sleep downstairs. Couch is lumpy.”

A weak laugh escapes you, more breath than sound. “Liar.”

He crosses the room in three steps, drops to sit on the edge of the mattress. The bed dips under his weight. You flinch at the sudden movement, then relax when you realize it’s him. Always him. His presence alone eases something in you, the ache dulls just a fraction, like his nearness is a balm.

“I can smell it,” he says quietly, no point in pretending anymore. “Your heat. It’s… starting.”

You swallow hard, finally opening your eyes to meet his. They’re dark in the low light, pupils blown wide. “I know. I thought- I thought maybe it was just a fever. But it’s not going away. It’s getting worse.”

He exhales through his nose, shaky and uneven. “Mine too.”

Your eyes snap wider, searching his face. “You’re-?”

“First rut.” He laughs once, bitter and self-conscious, running a hand through his hair. “Figures it would hit the same week. Same night. Same fucking attic. Like the universe has a sense of humor.”

Silence stretches between you, thick and electric, charged with everything unsaid over the years. The childhood friendship that never quite stayed innocent. The glances that lingered too long. The way you both always ended up here, in this room, pretending it was just tradition.

You shift slightly, wincing as the movement drags the sheet across your oversensitive skin, sending a fresh spark of need through you. “It hurts,” you whisper, voice trembling. “Not bad yet, just… constant. Like I’m burning from the inside out. Empty. I don’t know how to make it stop.”

He nods, throat working visibly. He knows exactly what you mean, his own body feels like a live wire, every nerve singing with want, every breath pulling more of your scent into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it, until his rut claws at him from the inside, demanding more.

“I… I can help,” he says, voice rough around the edges, like the words are being dragged out of him. “With the scent thing. If you want. It… calms it down. A little.”

You hesitate, brows furrowing. “Scent thing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, cheeks flushing darker even in the dim light. Awkwardness rolls off him in waves, stammering, avoiding your eyes.

“Yeah, uh… like, close contact. Nuzzling, or… licking the gland. Releases pheromones or something. Makes the heat less… frantic.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I, um, overheard Mom talking to Becca last year. When her boyfriend was here during her heat. She said if things got too much, they could try scenting first. You know, to take the edge off without… without going all the way. Said it’s safer, especially for first times.”

The memory flashes through his mind unbidden: him paused outside Becca’s door last summer, frozen when he heard his mom’s voice inside, calm, matter-of-fact, explaining the basics like it was no big deal. “Just scenting, honey. It helps without complicating things.” Becca had groaned in embarrassment; her boyfriend had mumbled something awkward. Bucky had backed away fast, face burning but the idea stuck. Lingered. Especially when he thought about you.

You blink at him, processing. The suggestion hangs there, awkward and intimate, making the air feel even thicker. “Oh. I… didn’t know that was a thing.” Your voice is small, but curious. The ache pulses again, sharper, and you shift uncomfortably. “Does it really help?”

He nods, still not meeting your eyes fully. “From what I’ve heard. Yeah. But only if you’re comfortable. I can… I can go back downstairs if-”

“No.” The word slips out fast, desperate. “Stay. Please. I trust you.”

He exhales, relief and tension mixing in his expression. “Okay. Yeah. Okay.”

He moves behind you slowly, careful not to startle, like you’re something fragile he might break. Slides under the sheet, spoons you from behind, chest pressing to your back, arm sliding around your waist, careful not to press too hard, not to let you feel how affected he already is. His nose finds the crook of your neck immediately, right over your scent gland. He inhales deep, greedy, a low rumble starting in his chest before he can stop it, instinctive, alpha-deep.

You sigh, body going liquid against him almost instantly. “That… that feels better already.”

He nuzzles closer, lips brushing skin tentatively. “Tell me if it’s too much. Or if I should stop.”

It isn’t too much. It’s exactly what you need.

He licks, slow, tentative at first, just the flat of his tongue over your gland, testing. You whimper, arching back into him without thinking, the sound pulling a groan from his throat.

He does it again, longer this time, wetter, tasting salt and sweetness and you. His arm tightens around your waist, pulling you flush. His hips press forward instinctively, the hard line of his cock nestling against your ass through thin layers of fabric.

You don’t pull away. If anything, you press back, a soft moan escaping.

His scent floods the room in response, dark cedar, gunmetal, smoke, sharp and possessive, mingling with yours in a heady mix that makes the air feel drugged. It wraps around you like a blanket, heavy and warm, soothing the fire in your veins. Your eyelids grow heavy almost instantly, the frantic edge of your heat dulling under the weight of his presence. Safe. So safe. Protected.

But it’s not one-sided.

Even as your body melts, your own instincts stir, deep and shy, curious and innocent. You turn your head slowly, nose brushing the side of his jaw, then his neck.

His scent gland is right there, warm and pulsing. You nuzzle it tentatively, awkward and unsure, just mirroring what he’s doing. Your tongue darts out, small, hesitant licks against his skin, tasting cedar and metal and him. It’s clumsy, inexperienced, your cheeks burning with embarrassment even as you do it.

Bucky freezes. A choked sound escapes him, half groan, half whimper. “Oh- fuck- baby-”

You pull back a fraction, eyes wide and nervous. “Is… is that okay? I just- I thought… maybe it works both ways? Like… fairness?”

He nods frantically, eyes glassy, voice wrecked. “Yeah. Yeah, it’s- more than okay. God. Keep going. Please.”

You do, awkward, innocent little licks along his gland, mirroring his rhythm. Your tongue is shy, tentative but every pass makes him tremble harder, hips jerking against you in tiny, helpless rocks. His scent deepens in response, smokier, more desperate and yours answers, sweetening, blooming brighter.

“Feels… weird,” you mumble against his skin, voice small and embarrassed. “Good weird. But I don’t- I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Me neither,” he admits, voice cracking. “Never done this. Never even- never even kissed anyone. Just you. Always you.”

You both blush harder at the confession, two virgins fumbling through instinct, through need, through trust.

He keeps licking your gland, slow and careful. You keep licking his, awkward, innocent, both of you trembling, both of you making soft, embarrassed noises every time your tongues brush skin.

Your eyelids grow heavier. The frantic edge of your heat dulls under the weight of his presence, his scent, his careful touches. Safe. So safe. Protected.

“Buck…” you mumble, already slurring, the world softening at the edges.

“Mmm?” He presses open-mouthed kisses along your neck now, teeth grazing but not biting, each one sending little sparks through you. “You okay? Still good?”

“Feels… so good…” Your words trail off into a sigh. Breathing slows. Deepens.

He keeps going, slow, reverent drags of his tongue, soft purrs vibrating through his chest into your back, the sound rumbling like distant thunder. His hand splays wide over your stomach, thumb brushing just under the hem of your tank in soothing circles. Not groping. Just holding. Claiming in the gentlest way he knows how.

You sigh once more, soft, content, almost a purr of your own and slip under completely. Deep, scent-drunk sleep. The kind only an alpha’s presence can pull an omega into during a first heat.

Bucky freezes mid-lick, tongue still pressed to your skin.

He listens: your breathing even now, slow and peaceful. Completely out. Trusting. Vulnerable.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes, the words barely audible. Horror and hunger twist together in his gut, sharp as knives.

He should stop. Pull away. Go sleep on the floor downstairs. Lock himself in the bathroom. Anything to put distance between you.

Instead, his hips rock forward, small, helpless, instinctive. The friction through his sweatpants is torture. Perfect torture. His cock throbs, already leaking, the rut demanding more now that he’s this close, this immersed in your scent.

“Baby…” he whispers against your hair, voice wrecked. “Need more. Just a little more. Please…”

No answer. Of course not.

He whimpers, high, broken, needy, the sound pathetic even to his own ears. Presses his face harder into your neck, mouthing at your gland like he can drink the calm straight from your skin, like he can absorb the trust you gave him and somehow make this okay.

His hand slides lower, trembling, slips under the waistband of your shorts. Finds you soaked, swollen, clit throbbing even in sleep under his fingertips. He bites his own lip until it bleeds, copper tang grounding him for a second.

“Just gonna touch,” he tells your sleeping form, voice shaking with guilt and want. “Won’t wake you. Promise. I’m sorry- I’m so sorry…”

Fingers circle slow. Slick and careful, petting gently. Your hips twitch once, unconscious little rock and he groans low, wrecked, forehead dropping to your shoulder.

“So wet for me,” he mumbles, words slurred against your skin. “Even when you’re dreaming. Fuck- you want it too, don’t you? Say yes. Please just- say yes even if you’re asleep-”

He grinds against you harder now, shallow thrusts through fabric, cock leaking steadily, making a mess of his sweatpants. His fingers speed up, just a little, rubbing tight circles over your clit while he ruts like a desperate teenager, hips snapping with less control.

The guilt is screaming in his head, louder than before. She’s asleep. She trusts you. You’re disgusting. Stop. Stopstopstop- Flashbacks hit him, stealing your hoodie in college, jerking off with it pressed to his face that night; the swimsuit bottoms from today, still damp in his memory; the way he’s always been like this, wanting you in secret, hating himself for it. Best friend. She’s your best friend. What kind of monster are you?

But his body doesn’t listen. The rut doesn’t care about guilt or friendship or years of restraint.

He comes with a choked sob, muffled against your neck, hot pulses soaking the front of his sweatpants, hips jerking hard against you in frantic, uneven thrusts. He shakes through it, whole body trembling, fingers still moving on you until he feels the tiny flutter of your body coming too, soft, dreamy, barely-there orgasm that leaves you sighing and nestling closer even in sleep, like your subconscious knows it’s him and wants more.

He pants against your hair, hot tears stinging his eyes now. Heart hammering like it’s trying to escape his chest.

Slowly, carefully he withdraws his hand. Wipes it on his ruined pants with a grimace. Pulls the blanket higher over both of you, tucking it around your shoulders like that can make up for what he’s done.

You don’t stir. Peaceful. Claimed.

He presses the softest kiss to the back of your neck, right over where he’s been licking for what feels like hours, the skin glistening faintly in the moonlight.

“Love you,” he whispers, voice cracked and raw. “So fucking much. I’m sorry. I’ll make it right. Somehow.”

He curls tighter around you. Still hard. Still aching, the rut not satisfied with just this. But calmer now, at least for the moment.

You sleep on, safe, claimed by scent, marked in the only way he’ll allow himself tonight.

Bucky’s chest heaves in the aftermath, each breath a ragged pull that does nothing to steady him, his heart slamming against his ribs like it's trying to escape the prison of his body. His sweatpants are ruined, sticky, cooling uncomfortably against his thighs but the rut doesn't care about discomfort.

It’s not done. Not even close. His cock twitches weakly, already stirring again, the alpha instinct roaring back to life with a vengeance that makes his hands shake. He can feel the knot forming at the base, swollen and insistent, even though he hasn’t pushed inside you yet. The thought alone sends a fresh wave of shame crashing over him, hot, choking, familiar.

He lies there for what feels like an eternity, arm still draped over your waist, fingers splayed possessively across your stomach. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin tank, grounding him and torturing him in equal measure.

Get up, he thinks desperately, go splash water on your face, sleep on the goddamn floor downstairs. Lock yourself in the bathroom until morning.

But your scent curls around him like smoke from a dying fire, sweet and cloying, seeping into his pores until his mouth waters again, until his vision blurs at the edges. The alpha in him stirs, primal and unyielding, whispering that this is right, that you’re his to claim, to take, to mark in every way possible. The man in him, the virgin who’s never even kissed anyone properly, the one who’s been your best friend since scraped knees and shared secrets, screams back: She's asleep. She's vulnerable. She's your best fucking friend. This isn't you.

Memories flood him unbidden, adding layers to the torment: the first time he realized his feelings weren't just friendly, that summer you turned eighteen and wore that sundress to the bonfire, the fabric fluttering in the breeze; the way he’d excused himself early, locked in the bathroom downstairs, hand around his cock imagining it was you.

Or college last year, when you sent a selfie in a new outfit and he’d saved it, stared at it in the dark until he came with guilt choking him. Small thefts building to this, hoodies, hair ties, now swimsuits. How did I get here? he wonders, tears already pricking at his eyes. When did I become this?

His hand, still trembling from the first release, slides back down, like his body is on autopilot. Between your thighs again, where you’re even wetter now, your body betraying you in sleep, slick pooling from the earlier touches, from his scent blanketing you like a possessive shroud.

The heat is building in you too, he can feel it, the way your inner walls flutter faintly at his proximity, instinct responding to alpha even in dreams. He scoops, fingers dipping shallow at first, collecting the warm, sticky essence that coats you. They come away glistening in the dim light, strands of your arousal stretching between them like liquid silk, sweet and golden like honey.

He stares at his own hand, breath hitching sharp in his throat. The sight is hypnotic, proof of your need, even unconscious, and it breaks something in him. This is real, he thinks. Not a fantasy. Not stolen fabric. You.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, voice breaking on the words as he lifts his fingers to his mouth, slow and clumsy, like he’s afraid to taste but can’t stop himself. The first taste is lightning, sweet, tangy, pure you, like warm honey on his tongue, exploding across his senses.

A broken whine rips from his throat, high and needy, echoing too loud in the quiet room, he clamps his free hand over his mouth to muffle it, eyes squeezing shut. But he doesn’t stop. He sucks them deeper, tongue swirling awkwardly, cheeks hollowing as he chases every trace, every drop. “F-Fuck- fuck, you taste like… like honey… so sweet… so good… how are you this perfect? Even asleep, you’re dripping for me… like… like you were made for this…”

His hips grind forward instinctively, clumsy and desperate, pressing the renewed hardness against your ass. The friction is messy, awkward, his sweatpants bunching, his movements jerky like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (because he doesn’t).

He pulls his fingers free with a wet pop, stares at them again, clean now, but the flavor lingers on his tongue, addictive and haunting. “I’m a monster,” he mutters, tears pricking hot at his eyes, blurring his vision. “Tasting you like this. Stealing it while you sleep. You have no idea- god, if you woke up now… saw me like this… you’d hate me…”

He dips again, deeper this time, fingers curling just inside, scooping more slick with a clumsy, fumbling motion that makes his own breath hitch. Your body clenches faintly around him, unconscious and soft, a tiny ripple that pulls a guttural, embarrassed groan from deep in his chest.

“S-See that? Even dreaming, you’re gripping me… pulling me in… like you know it’s me… like your body wants me to… to…” He shoves the fingers back into his mouth, sucking harder, sloppier now, the wet sounds obscene in the silence, echoing off the slanted walls. His free hand fists the sheet beside you, knuckles straining white, nails digging into the fabric like it can anchor him.

“Been perving on you for years… that red swimsuit summer- f-fuck, it rode up every time you moved… showed everything… jerked off in the shower thinking about peeling it off you… tasting you then… stole your bottoms today, you know that? Locked myself in the bathroom, buried my face in them like a dog in heat… came so hard I saw stars, whispering your name… and now- now I’m here, licking your slick off my fingers, rutting against you like I can’t control myself… because I can’t… I’m disgusting, baby… so sorry- love you-hate myself- can’t stop- been holding back forever, but the rut… it’s breaking me…”

Memories surface, adding depth to the spiral: the time in high school when you cried on his shoulder after a bad date, and he’d held you too tight, inhaling your scent until he was dizzy; the college care package you sent with a note that smelled like your perfume, and he’d kept it under his pillow for weeks. Small sins building to this avalanche. “You think I’m the good guy,” he chokes out around his fingers. “The best friend who protects you. But I’m not. I’m this. Always have been.”

His hips rut faster, grinding in earnest now, the earlier mess making everything slick and hot, friction building to a fever pitch that makes his vision tunnel.

Tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he licks his fingers clean one last time, savoring the taste like it’s his last meal, like tomorrow everything ends. “You’d hate me. Wake up and see the creep I’ve always been, the way I’ve watched you, wanted you. But f-fuck- fuck, I need you. Love you so much it’s killing me. That’s why, that’s why I’m like this. Need to be closer. Need to taste- need to have every part of you before you find out and leave.”

He comes again, sudden and shattering, hips slamming forward with a strangled, sobbing cry muffled into the crook of your neck, teeth grazing your skin but not biting.

Hot pulses flood his pants anew, body convulsing in waves, every muscle locking tight as the release rips through him like wildfire. He shakes like he’s breaking apart, sobs wracking his frame, tears soaking into your hair and the pillow beneath.

When the aftershocks finally go, leaving him hollowed out and trembling, he slumps heavy against you, panting harsh and broken. The guilt crashes in full force now, unfiltered by the rut’s haze, ugly, clawing, leaving him raw and exposed.

“Oh god,” he sobs quietly, face buried in your hair, inhaling the clean shampoo scent mixed with your heat like it’s a lifeline. “What did I do? What the fuck did I just do? I’m sorry- I’m so sorry- how do I fix this?”

Carefully, oh so carefully, like handling something sacred and fragile, he shifts just enough to reach for the corner of the blanket. Dips it between your thighs, wiping you clean with gentle, trembling strokes, his touch feather-light, reverent. He smooths your shorts back into place with utmost care, tucks the sheet around you snugly to keep you warm, brushes damp strands of hair from your forehead with feather-light touches, lingering on your cheek like he can wipe away his sins. His tears fall freely now, silent and hot, dripping onto your shoulder, soaking into the fabric of your tank.

“I’m gonna tell you,” he whispers into your hair, voice thick and wrecked, nose pressed to the spot he scented earlier, the skin still warm and marked by his earlier licks.

“Tomorrow. First thing in the morning. Confess everything- the hoodie from college that I never gave back, the swimsuit bottoms I stole today and ruined with my come, the way I’ve wanted you forever, watched you in secret, loved you in ways I shouldn’t. This night. All of it- the touching, the tasting, the grinding like a desperate animal. Beg you to forgive me. Or hate me. Kick me out of your life forever. Whatever you need, I’ll take it. I can’t keep this secret anymore. Can’t keep hurting you like this, pretending I’m just your friend when I’m… this. Love you too much- too much to lie. Please… please don’t hate me. But if you do, I deserve it.”

He holds you closer, body curled protectively around yours, as if he can shield you from himself, from the truth waiting in the dawn. The rut simmers low still, a distant hum waiting to reignite with the morning light, but for now, exhaustion pulls at him like an undertow. Sleep creeps in against his will, tears drying stiff on his cheeks, his promises echoing in his mind like fragile vows.

The attic is a furnace of heat and scent, the air so thick it feels like breathing through honey. Bucky had tried to sleep, really tried. He’d even drifted off for a little while, exhaustion finally pulling him under after the first round of guilt and need burned itself out. But now he’s awake again, jolted back by the insistent, aching throb between his legs, cock hard and heavy against your ass, leaking steadily through the ruined fabric of his sweatpants. His cock is pulsing with every heartbeat, refusing to let him rest.

His arm is still locked around your waist, fingers splayed across your stomach like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go, even in sleep. Every shallow breath you take drags more of your blooming heat into his lungs until he’s dizzy with it all over again. He shifts just slightly, trying to ease the pressure, but the movement only makes him groan low in his throat, hips rocking forward on instinct, pressing himself tighter against you.

He still feels like a monster.

But the rut doesn’t care about guilt. It only cares about claim.

His hand trembles as it slides down again, hooking the waistband of your sleep shorts with reverent care. He tugs them aside slowly, agonizingly slow so the fabric drags over your hips, cool air kissing newly bared skin. You don’t stir. Just sigh, soft and trusting, shifting closer like your body knows exactly who’s touching you even in sleep. The shorts catch briefly on the curve of your ass; he freezes, heart slamming, fumbles them lower until they’re bunched at your thighs.

He stares for a long moment, breath hitching at the sight of you: soft, bare, glistening in the moonlight from earlier touches and the steady leak of your heat. His mouth waters. His cock jerks against his stomach.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, voice cracking as he lines himself up. The tip nudges your entrance, slick, hot, ready. He’s shaking so badly the head slips once, twice, smearing wetness along your folds. A broken whine tears from his throat, high, helpless, muffled against your shoulder. “I’m so sorry… I can’t stop… can’t-”

He presses forward, inch by torturous inch, slow and clumsy, fumbling like he’s never done this before (because he hasn’t). Your virgin pussy resists, tight, so impossibly tight, clenching instinctively against the intrusion, pushing back like it doesn’t know whether to let him in or keep him out. He gasps, hips stuttering, tears already welling up again.

“F-Fuck- baby, you’re so… so tight…” he whimpers, voice small and shaking, almost baby-like in its desperation. “I’m sorry… I’m trying to be gentle… I don’t wanna hurt you… you’re so warm… so fucking warm… feels like coming home… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t be doing this… shouldn’t be taking you while you sleep…”

He pauses, breathing hard against your neck, tears dripping onto your shoulder. His tip is barely inside, your walls fluttering and squeezing, resisting every tiny push. He sniffles, voice cracking even more.

“C’mon, sweet girl… it’s just me… you know me, baby… it’s Bucky… just Bucky… open up for me, honey… please… let me in… I’ll be so gentle… promise… you’re so tight… so perfect… like you were waiting for me…”

He rocks forward again, tiny, careful little movements, coaxing, pleading with your body like it’s a shy thing he’s trying to befriend. Your walls flutter, then slowly, sweetly, start to soften, parting just enough, letting him sink another inch. He whimpers, high and relieved.

“There you go… good girl… that’s it… just like that… you know me… you trust me… let Bucky in, baby… please…”

Another slow push, your pussy yields a little more, gripping him so tight he has to bite his lip to keep from crying out. Tears stream down his face now, mixing guilt and awe and overwhelming love.

“So good… so sweet… like honey… fuck, you’re letting me in… you’re so tight… so warm… feels like home… I’m sorry… I love you… love you so much…”

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, buried to the hilt and nearly blacks out from the sensation. You’re molten around him, slick dripping down his balls, every tiny shift of your body gripping him like velvet. He stays still for a long moment, panting against your neck, trying to breathe through the overwhelming fullness, the guilt clawing at his chest like talons.

Then he moves.

Slow. Clumsy. Deep, dragging strokes that pull whimpers from his own throat with every pass. He’s whining, high, pathetic little sounds he can’t swallow back as he fucks into you with careful, fumbling thrusts, like he’s worshiping something holy and terrified of breaking it.

“Can’t stop,” he whispers, voice wrecked and whiny. “Can’t- fuck- can’t stop. You feel too good. Too right. I’m sorry… I’m so fucking sorry… been wanting this for years… watching you, stealing pieces of you… hoodie, swimsuit, now this… I’m disgusting… pervy little creep… but you’re mine… feel like mine…”

He angles his hips, awkward at first, fumbling, grinding deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your body flutter even in sleep. A soft, unconscious moan slips from your lips. He freezes, terror and lust warring in his chest then groans when you clench around him again, instinctive and needy.

“See that?” he mumbles, voice cracking. “Even dreaming you’re pulling me in… like you want it… want me… fuck, I’m gonna knot you… gonna lock inside… fill you up… mark you as mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I need- need it so bad…”

The knot begins to swell at the base, thickening with every clumsy thrust, catching at your entrance on the out-stroke, stretching you wider. He’s whining louder now, high, desperate little sounds he can’t swallow back, hips stuttering as the pressure builds to something unbearable.

“Gonna knot you,” he gasps against your ear, tears falling faster, soaking your hair and shoulder. “Gonna lock inside… fill you up… make you mine… I’m disgusting… shouldn’t… but I can’t stop… love you… love you so much it hurts… need you to be mine…”

One last deep, clumsy thrust.

The knot catches.

Swells.

Locks.

Hot, pulsing fullness stretching you open as it seals inside, tying you together. A broken sob rips from him, half relief, half shame as the first thick spurt of come floods you, wave after wave, so much it leaks out around where you’re stretched tight around him. His whole body convulses, hips jerking in tiny, helpless pulses as he empties inside you, tears streaming freely down his face.

And that’s when your eyes flutter open.

A soft, dazed sound slips from your lips, half moan, half sigh as awareness returns in hazy pieces: the overwhelming fullness deep inside, the heat of his body wrapped around yours, the rhythmic pulsing of his knot, the wet mess between your thighs, his tears on your skin, the broken way he’s clinging to you.

Your gaze finds his in the moonlight, wide, sleepy, pupils blown with lingering heat-drunk haze, no shock, just soft, instinct-led trust.

“Bucky…?”

He freezes, entire body locking up, knot throbbing helplessly inside you, tears still streaming down his face, voice shattered when he finally speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, barely audible, shaking so hard the knot tugs inside you. “I’m so fucking sorry- I couldn’t- I shouldn’t have- please don’t hate me- please- I’m disgusting- I know I’m disgusting-”

Your breath hitches, but it’s not fear, it’s need. The heat is still thinking for you, instincts purring in your veins, making everything feel right, warm, necessary.

You reach back slowly, fingers finding the nape of his neck, pulling him closer with sleepy, trusting gentleness.

“Shhh,” you whisper, voice thick with sleep and honey-sweet heat. “It’s okay… feels so good… so full… Buck…”

He whimpers, fresh tears soaking your skin as he clings tighter.

You clench around the knot deliberately, slow and sweet, drawing a wrecked, whiny sound from deep in his chest.

“More…” you mumble sleepily, voice soft and slurred, pure instinct speaking. “Bucky… please… more… feels so warm… so right… don’t stop…”

He buries his face in your neck, shaking harder, sobbing quietly against your skin.

“Love you,” he whispers, over and over, voice raw and broken. “Love you… love you… thank you… I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…”

You sigh and settle back against him, letting his knot hold you together, mumbling sleepily against his hair.

“More… Buck… please… feels so full… so good… keep going…”

He whimpers again, high, helpless, overwhelmed and rocks gently, tiny movements that make you both sigh in perfect harmony.

Finally crossing the line together, clumsy, guilty, innocent and so in love it hurts.

The knot keeps you locked together for what feels like an eternity, throbbing, pulsing, a steady heartbeat buried deep inside you that matches the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his against your back. The attic has grown still, the earlier frenzy burned down to embers. Outside, the lake laps softly at the shore, a distant, soothing metronome.

Inside, there’s only the quiet rasp of your breathing, the occasional creak of the old pull-out couch beneath your combined weight, and the faint rustle of sheets whenever one of you shifts. Moonlight has slid across the slanted ceiling, painting long silver stripes over the rumpled quilt and your tangled limbs, his arm banded low across your stomach, your legs entwined with his, bodies fitted together like pieces that have finally found their match.

Bucky’s face is still buried in the crook of your neck, nose pressed to the spot just over your scent gland, breathing you in like he’s afraid the scent will disappear if he stops. His tears dried long ago into faint salt tracks on your skin, but he hasn’t let go.

Not even an inch.

His breathing is ragged, uneven, aftershocks still rolling through him, guilt and awe warring in his chest like twin storms. He’s trembling harder now, not just from the bond or the knot, but from something deeper, something primal starting to uncoil inside him, raw and hungry, the alpha side he’s never let out before clawing its way up. It makes his fingers twitch against your skin, makes his hips give tiny, helpless rocks even though he’s trying so hard to stay still.

You’re both shaking a little: him from the raw vulnerability of what he’s done and the overwhelming relief that you haven’t pulled away; you from the lingering fullness, the slow, hazy return to reality after everything that just happened. You’re still so sweet, so pure, like warm honey in his arms, even after the mess, the tears, the guilt. Your scent is everywhere, soft, golden, comforting and it’s making that new, primal thing inside him growl quietly, wanting to claim, to keep, to never let go.

You clench around the knot once, instinctive, testing the connection and he whines, high and broken, hips jerking involuntarily, tugging the knot tighter inside you. His fingers dig into your hip, not hard, just desperate, like he’s afraid he’ll float away if he doesn’t hold on.

“F-Fuck- baby, don’t-” His voice cracks, raw and wrecked, still so awkward. “Don’t do that unless you want me to… to lose it again… I’m already- god, I’m barely holding on… I’ve never… never felt anything like this…”

You smile into the dark, small and sleepy, voice still thick with the afterglow, sweet like you always are. “Maybe I do.”

He exhales a shaky laugh against your throat, the sound half sob, half wonder, still so boyish, so unsure. “You’re gonna kill me. Swear to god, you’re gonna kill me and I’ll die happy… I’ve never… never even kissed anyone properly before tonight… and now… now I’m inside you… knotted… bonded… I don’t even know what I’m doing…”

Silence settles again, comfortable now, softer than anything that came before. His hand slides up your side in slow, reverent strokes, fingers tracing the curve of your ribs, the dip of your waist, like he’s mapping territory he’s only dreamed of touching. He’s clumsy about it, fingers trembling, hesitating every few inches like he’s scared he’ll do it wrong but so gentle, so careful.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost hesitant, the words dragged from somewhere deep and carefully guarded.

“Do you remember… the summer we were seventeen?” he murmurs, lips brushing your neck as he talks, voice cracking a little. “You had that stupid crush on Jake from the lake house next door. Came crying to me because he kissed some girl at the bonfire instead of you.”

You huff a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through both of you where you’re joined. “I remember. I was so dramatic. Thought the world was ending. Sat on the dock sobbing into my hoodie sleeves like it was the apocalypse.”

“You were sitting there, knees up, tears everywhere. I sat next to you for hours. Didn’t say much. Just… let you lean on me.” His thumb brushes slow circles over your hip bone, grounding himself in the feel of you. “That was the first time I realized I wanted to be the one kissing you. Not Jake. Me. I hated myself for thinking it. You were crying over some idiot and I was imagining pulling you into my lap, wiping your tears, fixing everything with my mouth. Thought I was the worst friend alive for even picturing it.”

Your breath catches. “You never told me.”

“Couldn’t.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against your shoulder. “Every summer after that… every time you fell asleep on my shoulder during movie nights in the living room, every time you hugged me goodbye before you left for college… I’d go home and jerk off thinking about you. Your laugh. The way your hair smelled after swimming, chlorine and sunscreen and something sweet underneath. That red swimsuit you wore, the way it rode up every time you dove in. The way you looked at me sometimes, like maybe you felt it too, like maybe I wasn’t crazy. I’d come so hard I’d see stars, whispering your name into my pillow like a prayer, then hate myself for days. Thought I was ruining everything. Thought if you ever found out how much I wanted you, you’d never look at me the same.”

Tears prick your eyes now, hot and sudden. “Buck…”

“I was terrified,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper, cracking on the last word. “Terrified of ruining the friendship. You were the only person who ever really saw me, scraped knees, bad moods, nightmares after my dad yelled too loud, all of it and I couldn’t lose that. You were safe. You were home. So I buried it. Deep. Stole pieces of you instead, hoodies left on my floor after movie nights, hair ties from your bag, that swimsuit today. Kept them like secrets. Like proof you were mine even if you didn’t know it. Like proof I could have you in some small, fucked-up way without breaking everything.”

He presses a trembling kiss to your scent gland, soft, reverent, like he’s apologizing to it too. “I’m still terrified. Even now. Even with my knot inside you… with your slick on my tongue… with the bond humming between us. Scared you’ll wake up fully tomorrow and realize what a creep I’ve been. That you’ll see all the times I watched you too long, all the nights I came thinking about you while you slept in the next room, all the ways I’ve taken pieces of you without asking. Scared you’ll leave. And I wouldn’t even blame you.”

You turn your head just enough to brush your lips against his jaw, tasting salt from his dried tears. “I’m here,” you whisper, voice steady despite the emotion thickening your throat. “I’m not leaving. I’ve been scared too- scared of saying anything, scared of losing you if I did. But I’m here. I want this. I want you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, relief and longing mixing in his chest. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth and tracing your lips like he’s trying to remember them. He’s clumsy and hesitant, as if he’s afraid he might ruin the moment.

“Can I…?” His voice cracks, barely audible. “Can I bite you? Make it real? Make you mine forever? I need to feel the bond snap. Need to know it’s forever. If you’ll let me.”

Your heart stutters. The question hangs between you, heavy, sacred, irreversible. You feel the knot pulse inside you, feel his heartbeat against your back, feel the raw hope and fear in his voice.

You nod slowly, eyes locked on his in the moonlight, tears shimmering in your own.

“Yes.”

He inhales sharply, like the word punched the air out of him. His hand moves to the back of your neck, cradling you gently as he tilts your head to the side, fingers shaking, like he’s terrified of hurting you. His lips brush your scent gland, soft, reverent kisses first, then slow drags of his tongue, tasting the salt of your skin, the sweetness of your heat still clinging to you.

“I love you,” he whispers against the spot, voice trembling. “Always have. Always will. No matter what happens tomorrow. No matter what you decide. I love you.”

He hesitates, nose brushing your skin, breathing shaky. “Is… is it gonna hurt?” you ask softly, voice small and nervous, sweet like honey even in your uncertainty. “The bite…?”

He freezes, eyes wide, suddenly looking so young, so unsure. “I… I dunno, baby,” he admits, voice cracking. “I’ve never… never done this before. I don’t wanna hurt you. You’ll tell me if it does, okay? Promise you’ll tell me and I’ll stop. I swear.”

You nod, trusting, sweet. “Okay. I trust you.”

He exhales shakily, presses one more soft kiss to your gland, then bites.

Teeth sink in, sharp, claiming, but so careful it’s almost too light at first. He hesitates again, whimpering against your skin, then presses deeper, fumbling, a tiny sob escaping him as he finally sinks in properly. Pain flares bright and hot for a split second, then explodes into white-hot pleasure as the bond snaps fully into place, stronger this time, like a circuit completing, like a key turning all the way in a lock that’s always belonged to him. The world narrows to the point of contact, to the pulse of his knot inside you, to the way his come keeps filling you in slow, endless waves, to the electric hum of the bond blooming between you, threading through every nerve, every heartbeat.

You come again, soft, rolling, dreamy, clenching around his knot in fluttering pulses that milk him deeper, drawing another broken moan from his throat. Your vision whites out for a moment, pleasure crashing through you in gentle waves, every nerve singing with the new connection, the certainty of him. You feel him everywhere, his heartbeat, his fear, his love, his awe all of it pouring into you through the bond like warm sunlight.

He licks over the freshened mark, slow soothing laps, sealing it with his tongue, his scent, his everything. His hips rock in tiny, helpless movements, riding out the aftershocks with you, knot pulsing in time with your fluttering walls. He’s whimpering the whole time, soft, needy little sounds, still so cute, still so overwhelmed.

“Mine,” he whispers, voice wrecked and reverent, nose pressed to the bite, inhaling deeply like he can draw the bond itself into his lungs.

You reach back, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer until his forehead rests against yours.

“Yours,” you breathe, voice soft and sure, sweet like honey even now.

He exhales and curls tighter around you, knot still locked, heart hammering against your back in perfect sync with yours.

The attic is quiet again.

But the silence feels different now.

It feels like home.

The knot finally begins to deflate as the first pale light of dawn creeps through the triangular attic window, turning the room soft gray and gold. It’s slow, agonizingly slow, each pulse weaker than the last until the thick swell eases enough for Bucky to shift without tugging painfully. You both feel it at the same moment: the sudden, slick release of pressure, the warm gush of his come and your slick leaking out around where he’s still half-buried inside you.

You make a soft, surprised sound, half gasp, half sleepy giggle as the fullness recedes. Bucky freezes, breath catching in his throat like he’s afraid to break the spell, but then his face cracks into a shy, lopsided grin.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice gravel-rough from hours of whispering confessions and love, but now there’s a goofy lightness in it. “I’ve got you. Just… breathe, okay?”

He pulls out carefully, wincing when the last of the knot slips free with a wet, obscene sound that makes both of you flush bright red and immediately dissolve into muffled laughter. More come spills out immediately, hot and messy, soaking your thighs, the sheets, the space between you. The scent hits harder now, thick, unmistakable, a cloud of sex and bonding that fills the tiny attic room like smoke.

You both stare at the mess for a heartbeat, wide-eyed, frozen, then at each other.

“Shit,” you whisper, cheeks burning so hot you’re sure they’re glowing.

“Yeah,” he agrees, voice small and cracking with embarrassed giggles. “Shit. That’s… that’s a lot. Like… wow. Did we… did we do that?”

Bucky moves first, sitting up on his knees like he’s trying to look responsible, reaching for the edge of the quilt to wipe between your thighs with gentle, hesitant swipes. His hands shake a little, careful not to press too hard on tender skin, but he keeps missing spots because he’s laughing too hard under his breath.

“Sorry if it’s- uh- cold. Or sticky. Or… everything,” he mumbles, cheeks flaming, ears bright red. “I’m trying to be… gentlemanly? I think?”

You bite your lip to keep from laughing harder, the absurdity of it all bubbling up like champagne. “It’s fine. You’re being very… thorough. Like a little nurse.”

He glances up, caught, then ducks his head again, ears practically glowing. “Just- don’t want you uncomfortable. You’re probably sore. I was… enthusiastic. Oh god, I said that out loud.”

You snort softly, legs parting shyly, watching his face, focused, reverent, still streaked with dried tears from the night before, hair a total disaster from your fingers. “That’s one word for it. You were… very thorough there too.”

He finishes cleaning you as best he can, then wipes himself down, cock still half-hard and glistening, thighs sticky, before tossing the soiled corner of the blanket aside with a dramatic grimace that makes you both giggle again. The sheets are a wreck, stained, rumpled, reeking of you both but he pulls the top quilt over the worst of it, buys you both a few more minutes of denial.

You sit up slowly, wincing at the soreness between your legs, the dull throb in your neck where the bite pulses like a second heartbeat. The fresh mark is raised, red, already scabbing at the edges, his claim, permanent now. Bucky’s eyes flick to it, then away, but this time there’s no guilt flash, just a soft dopey smile and a blush that spreads to his chest.

You reach out, fingers brushing his cheek. “Hey. Look at me.”

He leans into your touch like a man starved, eyes closing for a second, then opening again with that same silly, lovesick grin. “I did that,” he says, voice small and proud and a little awed. “I… I marked you. And you let me.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, thumb tracing the line of his jaw. “And I wanted it.”

He giggles, high and nervous and so Bucky it makes your heart flip. “You did. You really did. I kept asking if you were sure and you just kept saying ‘yes, Bucky... please’ like… like I was gonna stop or something. I was so nervous I almost dropped you during it.”

You laugh, soft and happy, leaning forward to bump your forehead against his. “You didn’t drop me. You were perfect. Clumsy, but perfect.”

Downstairs, voices begin to drift up, parents stirring, coffee brewing, the clink of mugs, Becca’s laugh at something her boyfriend said. Normal morning sounds. Innocent sounds.

Your stomach does a happy little flip instead of dropping.

“They’re gonna smell it,” you whisper, but there’s no panic, just giddy excitement. “The whole house is gonna reek of- of us. Of sex. Of bonding. They’ll know. Oh god, they’ll know.”

Bucky’s grin turns mischievous, eyes sparkling. “Yeah. They will. And I’m weirdly okay with it? Like… I want them to know you’re mine now. Officially. No more hiding.”

He looks toward the stairs like they’re an adventure, then back at you, eyes dark, protective but so soft at the same time. “They don’t get to make this weird. Not today. Not when we’re this happy. You’re mine now. Officially. And I’m not letting anyone act like it’s something to tease about… unless it’s cute teasing. Then maybe.”

Before you can respond, he’s moving, scooping you up in one smooth (but slightly wobbly) motion, arms under your thighs and back, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You yelp softly, then dissolve into giggles, hands flying to his shoulders, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct.

“Buck- what-”

“Shh.” He presses a quick, silly kiss to the tip of your nose, making you giggle harder. “I’m carrying you down. No arguments. You’re sore. And… I don’t want anyone getting too close to you right now. Not when you smell like me. Like us. Also I just… really like carrying you. It’s fun.”

The possessiveness in his voice is new, low but undercut with such goofy tenderness it makes your heart flip. You wrap your arms around his neck, hiding your face against his shoulder as he carries you to the stairs, both of you giggling like idiots every time he almost trips on a step.

He’s careful, slow steps, avoiding the creaky third one out of habit but every movement jostles you just enough to remind you of the ache between your legs, the way he’s still leaking out of you a little, slick trailing down your inner thigh. You bury your face deeper, laughing against his neck.

“This is so embarrassing,” you whisper, but you’re grinning so wide it hurts.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed,” he mutters, lips brushing your temple, voice full of that same lovesick wonder. “And I’m allowed to be a little clingy now. Bonded privileges. Also I’ve wanted to do this forever and now I can and it’s awesome.”

You snort against his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” he says proudly. “But I’m your ridiculous.”

When you reach the bottom, the kitchen is already alive.

Your mom at the stove, flipping pancakes. Bucky’s dad pouring coffee. Becca and her boyfriend at the table, mid-conversation about some dumb TikTok. All of them freeze the second you appear in the doorway, Bucky carrying you bridal-style, both of you in rumpled sleep clothes, hair wrecked, skin flushed, the air around you heavy with sex and fresh bonding.

The room goes dead silent.

Becca’s mug stops halfway to her mouth. Your mom’s spatula hovers over the pan. Bucky’s dad’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline so high they nearly disappear into his hair.

No one says a word.

They don’t have to. The scent is unmistakable, heat, rut, come, bond, all tangled together in a cloud that fills the kitchen like smoke. Everyone knows exactly what happened upstairs. Everyone knows you’re mated now.

But no one speaks. No teasing. No “so… how was it?” No sly grins. No congratulations shouted across the room.

They just… look away. Polite. Quiet. Letting the moment belong to you two, not turning it into cabin gossip or family ribbing. Becca suddenly becomes very interested in her coffee. Your mom flips a pancake with exaggerated focus. Bucky’s dad clears his throat once, then busies himself with the sugar bowl.

It’s a kindness, unspoken but clear: we see it. We know. We’re not ruining this.

Bucky’s grip tightens on you, but he’s grinning like an idiot, cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. He carries you past the table toward the back porch door, glaring over your shoulder at anyone whose gaze lingers even a second too long, but the glare is half-hearted because he’s too blissed-out and giggly to really mean it.

He shoulders the screen door open, steps out onto the porch with you still in his arms. The morning air is cool, lake mist curling over the water, birds calling softly from the pines. Sunlight glints off the ripples, turning everything golden and gentle.

He sets you down gently on the old wooden bench, kneeling in front of you immediately, hands on your knees, eyes level with yours.

The possessive fire dims. What’s left is raw, vulnerable Bucky, the boy who sat with you on the dock when you cried, the man who spent years terrified of this exact moment, the one who still can’t quite believe you’re letting him stay but now he’s glowing, eyes shining, smile so big it’s almost painful.

“I need to say it properly,” he starts, voice low and rough, but cracking with giggles every few words. “Not in whispers in the dark. Not while I’m inside you. Right here. Right now. In the daylight, where you can see my face and tell if I’m lying… or if I’m just a giant dork who can’t stop smiling.”

You reach for him, fingers brushing his cheek, thumb catching a lingering tear track but you’re smiling too, wide and silly and so happy it hurts.

“You already-”

“No.” He catches your hand, presses it to his lips, kissing each knuckle with exaggerated care, making you laugh. “I need you to hear it. I’m sorry. For everything. For stealing pieces of you for years, hoodies, hair ties, your swimsuit yesterday. For jerking off to the thought of you when I should’ve just told you how I felt. For crossing lines last night, even if you said it was okay. For being too scared to say I loved you sooner. For every time I watched you too long, wanted you too much, and hated myself for it. I was a coward. A creep. I don’t deserve this- don’t deserve you- but I’m begging anyway. Forgive me. Please. Or don’t. But know I’ll spend the rest of my life making it right if you let me. I’ll be better. I’ll be honest. I’ll be yours. Completely. No more hiding.”

Tears shimmer in his eyes again, but he’s still grinning, shaky, real, ridiculous. He’s shaking just a little like this is the scariest thing he’s ever done, even after last night, but he’s also so happy he can barely sit still.

You slide your hands into his hair, pull him forward until your foreheads touch, noses brushing in that silly, intimate way you used to do as kids when you were making up after a fight.

“I’ve wanted you too,” you whisper, voice thick with happy tears. “For years. Same summers, same movie nights, same goodbyes. I was scared too- scared of losing my best friend if I said anything. Scared you didn’t feel it back. Scared I’d ruin everything by admitting I thought about you when I was alone. That I’d touch myself thinking about your hands, your laugh, the way you always looked at me like I was the only person in the room. I wanted you too. Always.”

You kiss him pouring everything into it: forgiveness, love, certainty, a little silliness when your noses bump awkwardly and you both huff a laugh against each other’s mouths.

He melts against you, hands sliding to your waist, holding you like you might vanish. When you pull back, he’s smiling, small, shaky, real, eyes shining with pure, giddy joy.

“Mine?” he asks this time, voice soft and hopeful, like a kid asking for the last cookie.

“Yours,” you answer, tapping his nose with your finger. “Dork.”

He laughs, quiet, relieved, and so full of love it makes your chest ache and stands, pulling you up with him. Wraps an arm around your waist, tucks you against his side like you belong there (because you do).

Together, you step back inside, past the kitchen where everyone still pointedly doesn’t look, doesn’t speak, just lets you have this. Your mom suddenly remembers she needs more butter. Becca’s boyfriend becomes fascinated by his phone. Bucky’s dad clears his throat twice and busies himself with the sugar bowl again.

No one ruins the moment.

It’s yours.

And now everyone knows it, quietly, gently, without a word.

Bucky presses a kiss to your temple as you pass the table, voice low enough for only you to hear.

“Think we can sneak back upstairs for round two after breakfast?”

You elbow him lightly, grinning. “Behave. Or I’ll make you do dishes.”

He groans dramatically. “Cruel. You’re cruel to your mate.”

You laugh and lean into him.

The morning continues.

Normal.

Except it’s not.

It’s better.

It’s yours.

And you’re both so blissed-out, so giggly, so stupidly in love that nothing else matters.

One year later, the cabin looks exactly the same, same weathered pine siding kissed by a decade of sun and rain, same creaky porch steps that groan under every footfall, same triangular attic window catching the late-afternoon sun like a golden wink.

But everything feels different. The air tastes sweeter, the lake glitters brighter, the summer heat wraps around you softer now that it no longer carries the sharp edge of unspoken want. The bond between you and Bucky hums quietly beneath your skin like a song you both know by heart, steady, warm, always there.

You’re officially mated. The silver scar of his bite on your neck has faded to a delicate crescent that he still kisses every morning like it’s brand new, like he’s reminding himself you chose this, chose him.

You wear his old hoodies more often than not, and he wears your hair tie on his wrist like a wedding band he never takes off, faded blue elastic stretched thin from constant wear, a tiny, silly token that makes your heart flip every time you see it.

He’s changed in the best ways. His hair is longer now, dark waves falling just to his chin, curling slightly at the ends when it dries after the lake, framing his face in that effortlessly sexy way that makes your fingers itch to run through it.

The stubble he started growing last winter has settled into a full, neat beard, thick, dark, and perfectly trimmed, rough against your skin in all the right ways. And his body… god. He’s beefier, broader, more solid, shoulders wider from consistent gym time, arms thicker, chest and back carved with muscle that presses against you like he was built to hold you forever. He’s not just your Bucky anymore. He’s a man. Your man. And you’re completely obsessed.

This year the families caravanned up together again, cars loaded with coolers, beach towels, and the usual chaos of overlapping voices.

No one bats an eye when you and Bucky disappear for long “walks” that last hours, or when he scoops you up piggyback across the yard just because he can, your laughter trailing behind you both like music.

They’ve had a full year to get used to it: your mom still gets misty-eyed every time she catches sight of the bite mark and murmurs something about “finally,” Becca teases you mercilessly about “locking him down before he could escape,” and Bucky’s dad just grunts approvingly, hands him another beer, and says “good man” like it’s the highest praise.

The first full day, everyone heads to the lake like always, same routine, same laughter, same sun-warmed dock. You’re in the same black two-piece from last year, high-waisted bottoms, simple triangle top, except this time Bucky’s eyes don’t dart away in guilt. They linger, dark and hungry and proud, tracing every curve like he’s allowed to look now. Allowed to touch. Allowed to claim.

You dive in first, cutting through the cool water like you own it, the shock of it making you laugh when you surface. Bucky follows, powerful strokes closing the distance fast, hair slicked back dark and dripping, beard glistening with lake water. When you reach the dock, he’s already there, waiting, grinning, water dripping from his lashes and the ends of his hair.

“Race you to the buoy?” you challenge, splashing him lightly, droplets catching the sun like diamonds.

He doesn’t answer with words. Just lunges.

You squeal as he catches you around the waist underwater, spinning you until your back presses against the dock pilings. The wood is rough against your spine, but his hands are gentle, sliding up your sides, pinning your wrists above your head with one palm while the other cups your cheek, thumb brushing your bottom lip. His beard scrapes lightly against your skin when he leans in close, rough, delicious friction that makes you shiver.

“Cheater,” you breathe, laughing against his mouth.

“Winner,” he corrects, voice low and rough, then kisses you, deep, slow, breathless. Water laps around you both, cool against heated skin, but the kiss is fire. His tongue slides against yours, lazy and possessive in the way he’s perfected over the last year, like he’s reminding you that this is real now. You arch into him, legs wrapping around his waist, feeling him harden against you through his trunks, his body pressing you firmly to the wood.

He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your lips, voice husky, “Missed this view last year. You in this suit. Me not allowed to touch. Had to dive under the water like an idiot to hide how hard I was.”

You nip his bottom lip, grinning. “You’re allowed now.”

His eyes darken, pupils blown wide. “Good thing we’re underwater.”

He kisses you again, harder this time until you’re both gasping, clinging to the dock, the rest of the family too far away to notice (or pretending not to, because they’ve learned). When you finally surface for air, foreheads pressed together, he’s smiling, goofy, boyish, the same smile he gave you when you were kids racing to the buoy, but now it’s edged with something darker, hungrier.

You reach up, fingers threading through his wet hair, tugging lightly. “This hair is getting ridiculous,” you tease, voice breathy. “You look like a sexy pirate. And this beard…” You drag your fingertips along his jaw, feeling the rough scrape, scratching lightly through the thick scruff. “God, I love it. It’s so scratchy. I’m gonna have beard burn everywhere and I’m not even mad.”

He groans low in his throat, hips rocking against you once, helpless, leaning into your touch like a puppy getting pets, eyes fluttering shut, beard pressing harder into your palm as you scratch. “Fuck- keep doing that,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “You’re killing me, honey.”

“I am,” you admit, grinning, scratching your nails gently through his beard again, watching him melt. “Makes you look like a man now. All beefy and grown-up. I’m obsessed. You’re so hot it’s unfair.”

His eyes flash and he leans in, beard rasping deliciously against your throat as he nips lightly. “Careful what you wish for. Keep scratching like that and we’re not making it back to the cabin.”

That night, the attic room feels different too.

No more pretending. No more guilt. Just you, him, and the quiet hum of the bond between you.

You’re already in bed when he climbs the stairs, same old pull-out couch, same faded quilt but this time you’re wearing nothing but his t-shirt, legs bare, hair loose over your shoulders. He stops in the doorway, just looking, eyes soft and awed like he still can’t believe this is real after a whole year.

You crook a finger, smiling. “Come here, baby.”

He obeys instantly, kicking the door shut, locking it, crawling over you with that slow, predatory grace he’s learned you love, longer hair falling forward, brushing your cheeks as he leans down. The kiss starts soft, then deepens as he settles between your thighs, already hard and ready against you.

“Missed this room,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice thick. “Missed you in it. Without the guilt. Without the fear.”

You slide your hands under his shirt, tracing scars and muscle, feeling the bond flare bright at every touch. “No fear tonight. No guilt. Just us.”

He groans softly when you tug the shirt off him, then helps you out of his. Skin on skin. Heat on heat. The bond sings as he flips you onto your stomach, his body caging you from behind. He presses hot, open-mouthed kisses down your spine, beard scraping deliciously against your skin, making you arch and giggle.

“On your knees, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice rougher now, that primal edge creeping in. “Wanna see you like this.”

You obey, heart racing, thighs trembling, pushing up onto your knees, ass in the air. He groans low, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Fuck… look at you. So pretty for me.”

He slides in from behind, slow at first, letting you feel every thick inch, then deeper, harder, until he’s buried to the hilt. You moan into the pillow, fingers clutching the sheets. He starts thrusting, deep, steady, powerful, his bigger frame rocking you forward with each snap of his hips.

One hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair, tugging your head back just enough to make you gasp. The other comes down, sharp, playful smack against your ass. You yelp, surprised, then moan, pushing back against him.

“Didn’t know you had it in you,” you breathe, voice shaky with pleasure.

He leans over you, beard scraping your shoulder, voice low and filthy in your ear. “Been holding back for years, baby. Now I don’t have to. You’re mine. Gonna fuck you like I’ve always wanted to.”

Another smack, lighter, teasing, then his hand soothes the sting, kneading the flesh. You’re dripping around him, clenching hard, and he growls, pace picking up, harder, deeper, hips snapping against your ass with filthy, wet sounds.

“God- yes- right there,” you whimper, pushing back to meet every thrust. “Harder, Bucky… please…”

He obeys, grunting, primal, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your hip so hard you’ll have marks tomorrow. His beard scrapes your neck as he leans down, biting lightly at your shoulder, not claiming, just possessive.

“Fuck- you take me so good,” he rasps. “So tight… so wet… all mine.”

You come first, shattering around him, crying out into the pillow, walls fluttering and milking him. He follows seconds later, deep, guttural groan, hips slamming forward one last time as he fills you, knot swelling, locking you together.

He collapses over you, careful not to crush you, both of you panting, sweaty, laughing breathlessly into the sheets.

After the knot eases, he rolls you both to the side, still buried inside, arms wrapped tight around you, nose buried in your hair.

He presses a kiss to the bite mark, gentle, reverent, then nuzzles lower, nosing at your collarbone, your chest, until his lips brush the edge of your breast.

You laugh softly, sleepy. “What are you doing?”

“Reclaiming every inch,” he murmurs, voice thick with contentment. “Gonna mark you everywhere eventually. Gonna make sure you never forget who you belong to.”

You roll your eyes, fond, fingers carding through his hair, then scratching lightly through his beard. He leans into it like a puppy, eyes fluttering shut, low rumble in his chest, beard pressing harder into your palm.

“God, I really love this beard,” you whisper, scratching again, watching him melt.

He groans, hips rocking lazily against you once. “Keep scratching like that and we’re not sleeping tonight.”

You grin, wicked. “Good. Because I want you again. And again. And again.”

He kisses you, then pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes shining with that same lovesick wonder.

“I love you,” he says softly.

“I love you too Buck,” you answer, brushing a strand of hair from his face.

He laughs, quiet, relieved and so full of love it makes your chest ache and curls tighter around you.

The attic is quiet again.

But this time, it’s full of giggles, teasing, and the promise of forever.

The kitchen is its usual beautiful chaos the morning after, pancakes sizzling on the pan, butter melting into golden pools, coffee brewing with that rich, comforting smell that always means home.

Becca and her boyfriend are already in full debate mode over the last blueberry muffin, forks poised like swords, while sunlight pours through the big windows, turning everything warm and golden. The faint scent of lake water still clings to the air from yesterday, mixing with syrup and bacon in the best way.

You and Bucky wander in hand-in-hand, both freshly showered but still glowing like you’ve been dipped in honey and sunlight. His hair is still damp, pushed back messily from his face, a few soft waves curling against his neck. The beard is dark and scruffy, framing that strong jaw perfectly, and his shoulders look even broader in the soft morning light, the plain t-shirt clinging just enough to show how much beefier he’s gotten. He looks like a man who’s been well-loved and is very pleased about it. You’re in one of his oversized hoodies, sleeves flopped over your hands, legs bare under sleep shorts, hair still a little tangled from his fingers last night.

The second you step through the doorway, the room doesn’t exactly go silent, it just… pauses. Like everyone collectively holds their breath for half a second, then decides to be extra nice about it.

Your mom glances up from the stove first. Her eyes flick between you two, land on the fresh bite mark peeking above the hoodie collar, and her whole face melts into the softest, knowing smile. She doesn’t say anything, just turns back to the pancakes with a tiny, satisfied hum and starts humming an old tune under her breath.

Bucky’s dad lowers his newspaper slowly, takes one look at the pair of you, Bucky’s arm already around your waist, your head tucked against his shoulder and grunts. “Took you long enough.”

Becca snorts so hard she nearly inhales her muffin. She coughs, eyes watering, then points her fork at you both with zero remorse. “Okay, first of all, loud. Like, loud loud. We all heard you last night. Thin attic floorboards, guys. Thin. Attic. Floorboards. I was trying to watch a movie and it sounded like someone was moving furniture up there. Repeatedly.”

Her boyfriend chokes on his coffee, trying (and failing) to hide a grin behind his mug. He coughs into his elbow, shoulders shaking.

Your face flames instantly. Bucky’s ears go bright red, but he doesn’t let go of your hand in fact, he squeezes it tighter, thumb rubbing soothing little circles over your knuckles like he’s trying to calm you both down at once.

Becca keeps going, merciless but playful. “I mean, we were all sitting there like ‘should we turn the volume up?’ and then it was just… ‘oh Bucky- yes Bucky- oh my god Bucky-’” She does an exaggerated, breathy impression that makes everyone groan in unison.

“Becca!” you squeak, burying your face in Bucky’s shoulder, mortified but already starting to giggle.

He’s laughing now, quiet, embarrassed but so happy he can’t help it. His free arm slides around your waist, pulling you flush against his side like he’s shielding you (and maybe showing off a little). “We… uh… got carried away,” he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand. His beard rasps against your temple when he leans down to whisper, “Sorry, honey. Guess we weren’t quiet. At all.”

You peek up at him, cheeks still burning, but you’re giggling too. “You were the loud one,” you whisper back, poking his chest. “All those growly noises. And the… the spanking. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

His eyes darken for half a second, before he catches himself and blushes harder. “You liked it,” he mutters, voice low enough that only you can hear. “Don’t lie.”

“I did,” you admit, scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like a big puppy, eyes fluttering shut for a second, a soft, happy rumble vibrating through his chest.

Becca makes a gagging noise. “Gross. You’re both gross. And loud. And gross. But also… kinda cute? In a disgusting way.”

Your mom finally turns fully, spatula in hand, eyes twinkling with pure mischief. “So… when can we expect grandpups? I’m not getting any younger, you know. And after last night’s… enthusiastic performance… I’m thinking it won’t be long.”

Bucky chokes on air. You squeak and hide your face deeper in his hoodie.

“Mom!”

Bucky’s dad just chuckles, low and rumbling. “She’s right. Cabin’s been too quiet. Needs little feet running around again. Maybe a couple of ‘em, judging by all that racket.”

Becca leans forward, grinning wickedly, but her eyes are soft. “Yeah, Buck. You gonna put a pup or three in her this summer? Look at you, long hair, full beard, all beefed up. You’re basically built for it now. Dad material.”

She pauses, then her voice goes all dreamy and sincere. “I just want a little niece so bad. I’d braid her hair every morning. Tiny little French braids with ribbons. Teach her how to cannonball off the dock. Dress her up in all my old sundresses. Spoil her rotten. Please? I’d be the best aunt.”

Bucky’s ears are practically glowing. He clears his throat, arm tightening around you possessively, but there’s a tiny, shy smile tugging at his lips. “We’re… uh… we’re working on it,” he mumbles, then glances at your mom and Becca with a sheepish look. “Eventually. When we’re ready.”

Your mom laughs and turns back to the stove. “Take your time. But not too much time. I want to be able to chase them around the yard before my knees give out. And Becca’s right- she’d be the most ridiculous aunt. Already planning outfits.”

You bury your face in Bucky’s shoulder again, mortified but laughing so hard your stomach hurts. He presses a kiss to your temple, soft, lingering then whispers against your hair, voice full of that same goofy, lovesick wonder:

“We’ll get there, honey. When we’re ready.”

You nod against him, still giggling, fingers scratching lightly through his beard again. He leans into it like always, eyes half-closing, a happy little rumble vibrating through his chest.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “When we’re ready.”

Becca fake-gags again. “You two are disgusting. And cute. Mostly disgusting. But also… hurry up with the baby. I need to practice my braiding skills.”

Bucky just grins, wide, shameless, proud and pulls you even closer, beard rasping softly against your cheek as he nuzzles in.

The kitchen fills with chatter again, normal, loud, loving, full of teasing and warmth and the promise of more family, more noise, more little feet someday.

The attic is quiet now, the kind of soft, golden hush that only comes after a long summer day. Moonlight slants through the triangular window, painting silver stripes across the rumpled quilt and your tangled legs.

You’re sprawled across Bucky’s chest, cheek pressed to warm skin, listening to the steady thump of his heart under your ear. His hair fans out across the pillow like dark silk, still a little damp from the shower and his beard rasps gently against your fingertips as you trace lazy patterns along his jaw.

He’s got one thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other hand resting possessively on your hip, thumb rubbing slow, absent circles through the thin fabric of his t-shirt you’re wearing.

You shift a little, propping your chin on his sternum so you can look up at him. He’s already watching you, eyes soft and half-lidded, that quiet, lovesick smile tugging at his mouth.

Your cheeks warm. You bite your lip, suddenly shy.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper. “Um… what if… what if we started trying? Like… tonight?”

Bucky blinks. Once. Twice. His thumb freezes on your hip. His scent spikes, sharp, protective, hungry.

“Tonight?” he echoes, voice cracking just a little, low rumble vibrating through his chest. His eyes search yours, stunned. “You mean… pups? With me?”

You nod, cheeks burning hotter, but you don’t look away. “Yeah. I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately. About… us. A litter of little ones. Running around, maybe with your eyes…” You give a small, nervous laugh, fingers twisting in his hair. “I just… I want that with you. If you do.”

He stares at you for a long beat, something raw and stunned flickering across his face. Then his hand slides up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your skin so gently it makes your chest ache.

“Baby,” he breathes, voice rough with emotion. “You have no idea how much I want that. How long I’ve wanted it.”

You smile, shy but bright, and lean down to kiss him, soft at first, sweet. But when you pull back, something shifts. His pupils are blown, breathing uneven, and you can feel him starting to harden under you.

The shyness recedes, replaced by a slow, mischievous heat.

You trace a finger down his chest, over the ridges of his abs. “You know… if it happens, my body’s gonna change. A lot.” Your voice drops lower, teasing now. “These are gonna get so full. Heavy. And… leaky.”

Bucky’s breath hitches. His grip on your hip tightens.

“Jesus,” he mutters, flush creeping up his neck.

You press on, voice turning huskier. “Imagine it… me sitting in your lap, shirt off, letting you taste. Letting you wrap that beard around my nipple while I ride you slow. Milk dripping down while you’re still inside me, still trying to put a baby in me.”

His jaw drops. Eyes go wide, dark, stunned. “Fuck baby- you can’t just-” He swallows hard, voice cracking again. “You start all sweet and shy and then hit me with that?”

You giggle, the sound low and a little wicked now, and grind down once, feeling how hard he’s gotten. “Can’t help it. Thinking about you breeding me… getting me all swollen and full… it makes me so wet.”

He groans, deep and wrecked, hands flying to your hips to hold you still like he’s trying not to lose it. “You’re gonna kill me. Sweet one second, filthy the next. How am I supposed to survive you?”

You slide down his body slowly, dragging your tongue along the deep lines of his abs, tasting warm skin and faint salt, following the trail lower. When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you nuzzle the thick bulge there, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses over the fabric. You feel him twitch, hear the sharp inhale above you.

“Baby-” His voice is hoarse, hips jerking up just a fraction.

You hum against him, hot breath soaking through, then pull away completely.

Without a word, you roll onto your side, back to him, curling up like you’re ready to sleep. The t-shirt rides up just enough to bare the curve of your hip and the tops of your thighs, quiet invitation, quiet torture.

Silence. Thick. Heavy.

You can practically feel his eyes burning into your back, hear the ragged edge to his breathing.

A beat. Then the mattress dips. His chest presses flush to your spine, arm sliding around your waist, pulling you tight against him. His cock, rock-hard, settles hot against your ass through the sweats.

“You think you can say all that,” he growls low against your ear, beard scraping your neck, “get me this desperate… then just roll over like you’re going to sleep?”

You bite your lip to hide the smile, staying still.

His palm spreads over your stomach, like he’s already picturing it round with his child. “Not happening, sweetheart. You started this fire.”

He rocks forward once, slow, letting you feel every inch. Then his hand slips lower, fingers dipping under the hem of the t-shirt, sliding between your thighs. You’re soaked, have been since the first shy words left your mouth and he groans when he finds you bare and slick.

“Fuck, you’re dripping,” he mutters, voice wrecked. Two thick fingers circle your clit once, twice, then sink inside you slow and deep. You arch back against him with a soft whimper.

“Bucky-”

He curls them just right, thumb pressing your clit in lazy circles while his other hand tugs your thigh up and back, opening you for him. “Gonna fill you up tonight,” he rasps against your ear. “Gonna fuck you slow and deep until it takes. Until you’re carrying my kid.”

The words hit like a spark. You clench around his fingers, moaning softly.

He pulls his hand free just long enough to shove his sweats down, freeing his cock, thick, hot, already leaking at the tip. He notches himself at your entrance, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in you.

“Tell me you want it,” he breathes, voice trembling with restraint. “Tell me you want me to breed you, baby.”

You reach back, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging him closer. “I want it,” you whisper, voice shaking with need. “Want you inside me. Want you to come deep and stay there until I’m full. Please, Bucky.”

That’s all it takes.

He pushes in slow, inch by thick inch until he’s seated to the hilt. You both groan at the stretch, the perfect fit. He stills for a second, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Then he starts to move.

Slow at first, long, deliberate strokes that drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His arm bands around your waist, holding you flush while his other hand slips between your legs again, rubbing tight circles over your clit.

“Gonna keep you like this all night,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Gonna fuck you full. Gonna watch these get heavy for me. Gonna taste you when they start leaking.”

The filthy promise, combined with the deep grind of his hips, snaps something in you. You push back to meet every thrust, soft moans spilling out as the pleasure builds fast and bright.

He picks up the pace, hips snapping harder now, the wet sound of skin on skin filling the quiet attic. His beard rasps against your neck as he mouths at your scent gland, teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

“Come for me,” he growls low. “Come on my cock while I fill you up. Gonna give it to you- gonna breed you right now.”

The words tip you over. You clench hard around him, crying out his name as the orgasm crashes through you, waves of heat, pulsing, pulling him deeper. He follows seconds later with a broken groan, burying himself as far as he can and coming hard, hot pulses flooding you, hips stuttering like he can’t stop.

He stays buried deep, knot swelling inside you, one hand splayed protectively over your stomach. His lips brush your shoulder in lazy, sated kisses.

“Gonna stay like this a while,” he murmurs, voice soft now, wrecked and tender. “Gonna make sure it takes.”

You hum, content, threading your fingers with his over your belly. “Good,” you whisper. “Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

The attic is quiet again.

But now it’s full, full of ragged breaths slowing to calm, full of the warm, sticky promise between your thighs, full of maybe, someday little feet on the porch.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

Whether fortunately or unfortunately, you were the only one who presented as an omega. All your brothers and sisters were Alphas, which means the hammer really came down on you. Your mother made sure you knew how omegas were supposed to behave. Docile, submissive, made to cater to Alphas. It didn’t matter if the world was moving away from these stereotypes. In your household, your father’s word was law, and that meant you had to fall in line.

You cut them off the second you turned eighteen, not that they cared. The last words your mother ever said to you were that no Alpha would put up with your demands, and you would end up alone with no mate, no pups, no family.

Whatever. You don’t need a family. You would be fine on your own.

That was nearly a decade ago. You are a grown woman now, with a stable job, a cozy house, and good friends. Yes, after struggling through college with no one by your side, struggling to unravel how your family’s beliefs had screwed with your head, you even managed to make friends. Your job is a corporate, boring desk job, but the people there are very nice and accommodating. On your first day there, you met Boo Seungkwan, a fellow omega, who welcomed you as one of his own, metaphorically taking you under his wing.

Seungkwan is unlike any omega you have ever met in your life. He is loud, he takes up space, he gets annoyed with his Alpha friends, snaps at them, even calls them names sometimes. It had shocked you when you first saw him interact with Mingyu, who sat one desk over from you. And it shocked you even more when Mingyu never once shut Seungkwan down, instead engaging in petty banter with just as much zeal. You cannot imagine your father or your brothers tolerating Seungkwan’s tone, but Mingyu took it in stride.

They both fascinated you. And you fascinated them.

Seungkwan is a naturally affectionate person. When he tried to hug you for the first time, every hair on your body stood up, every muscle turning rigid with tension. You cannot explain how it felt, like someone was slashing at your inner omega with knives, and unintentionally, you snarled from deep within your subconscious. Seungkwan nearly flew off you, eyes wide, mouth dropped open. He held his hands up to placate you as you tried to regulate your breaths.

He never touched you again.

You can list off in your head the number of times someone has touched you. Your father, never. When you started walking properly as a toddler was the last time it was your mother. You had shaken hands with teachers at graduation, both high school and college. You had accidentally bumped into people on the subway. The doctor touched you when you went in for checkups, and that was hell too, making your heart pound painfully and your skin feel like it was on fire. You don’t know why you’re like that. You just are. Touching hurts. So you avoid it.

Choi Seungcheol knows exactly what it is.

He is interested in you from the second he first sees you walk into the office. You don’t work in the same team. He is in finance, you are in marketing, but he sees you often because you are on good terms with Seungkwan, and Seungkwan is friends with literally everyone. He likes watching you. You are quiet, calm but witty. You can keep up with someone as hyperactive as Seungkwan quite easily, and you like ribbing on Mingyu sometimes too, who you also seem to be close with. Seungcheol wonders if there is something going on there, but then he sees Seungkwan hug you, your visceral reaction to it, and it all clicks into place.

You’re a touch starved omega.

He has seen it once before when he was a teenager. It isn’t common, and often only happens with severe neglect. It makes no sense to him. You’re so beautiful, and the handful of times Seungcheol has been in the same vicinity as you, he has caught a whiff of your scent. Sweet like honey and flower petals. He cannot imagine that another Alpha has never been interested in you, or tried to court you. His heart aches at the thought of you being so alone for so long, and the Alpha in him wants to comfort you.

But he has to take this slow.

It is a random Thursday evening when Choi Seungcheol approaches you for the first time. You are standing outside the office building, fiddling with your phone, when a very distinctly alpha smell hits your nose. You turn your head to see him there, a mere few feet from you. He offers you a tiny smile.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” You recognise him. “Seungcheol?”

“That’s me.”

You’ve seen him around the office. You’re not sure what department, but he’s in the break room sometimes when you and Seungkwan are in there. His presence isn’t loud or overwhelming like alphas often are, but there’s a very distinct, confident air about him. He carries himself with the self assured stance of a man who is comfortable in his skin. You like people who know what they want out of life, like Seungkwan, like Seungcheol. But you never had any reason to speak to him before.

“Are you waiting for someone?” He asks.

You shake your head, holding up your phone. “Just looking for a cab. My car’s in the shop, so I’ve been commuting like this.”

He nods. “I can give you a ride home, if that’s okay?”

You hesitate a bit. You don’t want to impose on him, even though he is the one who offered. But you look down at the app again, at how you’ve been looking for something not crazy expensive for the last ten minutes. You weigh your options as he waits patiently for your answer, before reluctantly nodding yes.

Seungcheol’s car smells like him, and it’s the first time his scent hits your nose strongly enough for you to decipher the notes. Cedarwood and leather. It’s heavy, but not potent, grounded in earthly tones. Involuntarily, you feel yourself relax. That doesn’t happen often when you’re among alphas. The only other one you feel remotely okay with is Mingyu.

Seungcheol makes small talk with you as he drives. None of the questions are too invasive; why your car is in the shop, how your current project is going, what are your usual plans for after work. You talk about Seungkwan, the common link between you two, and Seungcheol praises Seungkwan’s people skills, his ability to hold attention during work meetings. You conclude that you like listening to him speak. His voice is deep, kind of brassy without being grating to the ear. It’s soft too, despite being so manly, and you wonder again how an alpha can have such a strong presence while simultaneously being so accommodating.

“Thank you.” You smile at him genuinely, when he stops before your apartment complex. He nods and smiles back, and your breath catches at the little dimple that dents his cheek. Every little thing adds to his allure. You can feel the omega in you stir, and you leave the car before you can dwell on what that means.

You haven’t had much luck with romance in the past. You presented later than most people your age, and by the time you came to terms with your upbringing, trying to break away from it, you were well into college. You know alphas looked at you, of course. They were alphas. Their biology meant that they would sniff out an omega. But it was never about you, specifically. Your aversion to touch worries you sometimes when it comes to finding a mate, but you are also averse to the very idea of a mate, especially after what your mother had always said. You have grown resentful of the idea that an alpha could be anything like the ones you grew up with. So you banish any thought of that from your mind.

Seungcheol starts showing up more and more in your life after that.

When he greets you in the break room and Seungkwan realizes you know each other, he insists that you all sit together, and that’s how you end up having lunch with him every day. He always offers a taste of his food, which you politely decline, insisting he should eat. A few days of this and he starts bringing a smaller box with him, saying you can eat from it without worrying about his portions. It catches you off guard, that he sets food aside for you, but something inside you preens at the thought, and your heart beats faster when you accept the food.

Seungcheol drives you home a few more times as well, saying he lives in the same direction anyway, and you can ride with him until your car is back from being fixed. You wrack your brain on how to repay all his kindness, and you are so caught up in it that Seungkwan has to sit you down and spell it out for you.

“He’s courting you, dumbass.” His eyes bore into you, and you blink hard a few times, trying to process his words.

“No he’s not.” You scowl. “He’s just being kind.”

“He’s cooking extra food and packing it every day for an unmated omega. He is offering to drive home an unmated omega every day.” Seungkwan rolls his eyes.

You bite your lip anxiously, because putting it like that makes it so much more obvious. Is Seungcheol courting you? You have never been courted before. No wonder you didn’t notice.

You fret over it for a few days. And it is on one of your rides home with him that Seungcheol finally speaks up.

“It might not be my place to say, but you seem a little worried.” His voice is low, cautious. “Is something bothering you?”

You have been looking for an opening to bring it up with him anyway, so you try not to think about how Seungcheol guessed that you’re worried and instead ask him what’s been on your mind.

“Seungkwan seems to believe that you are…. courting me.” You try to keep your voice level as you say it, fidgeting on your seat. When he doesn’t say anything for a few seconds, you feel your face burn hot.

“I’m sorry, I’m being ridiculous.” You shake your head, trying to wave off the annoyance that you now feel at your omega friend. Curse him and his crazy, outlandish suggestions.

“Why would it be ridiculous?” He says finally, eyes still on the road.

“What?”

“The thought of someone courting you shouldn’t be ridiculous.”

Your face is still burning hot. You don’t know what to say to him, how to even begin unraveling why you think this way. Even Seungkwan hasn’t had your trauma dumped on him yet.

Seungcheol’s car slows down in front of your building. He puts it into park and reaches the backseat for his satchel. From it, he removes a black, velvet box. He pulls it open, and you have to strangle a gasp in your mouth as you eye the glittering silver chain of the bracelet. It has a single charm on it, cherries, also silver and gleaming in the light.

“I wanted to gift this to you from the start.” He confesses. “But I figured it would be better to start smaller. Like with food.”

Your heart is beating fast, your eyes trained on the bracelet as he removes it from the box. You don’t dare look up at him. You’re scared. He doesn’t push for you to speak. Silence fills the small space between you two.

“Seungcheol, I-” You hesitate. “I have issues.”

He chuckles a bit, but not unkindly. “We will take this as slow as you want. You call the shots. I’m just asking for a chance to be the one to love you the way I think you deserve.”

You call the shots.

You look at him then, to find that his eyes are already on you. Dark and warm like the earth. It grounds you, and you can feel your shoulders loosen just a bit.

His fingers brush your skin just slightly as he clasps the bracelet on your wrist. Your omega stirs, restless, on guard. You don’t get a wink of sleep that night.

……………………….

Seungkwan is fawning all over your courting gift the next day, nearly beside himself. He’s flushed so red you are afraid he will explode. Mingyu is grinning ear to ear too, swaying in his chair.

“Couldn’t have been anyone better.” He claims. “Seungcheol’s alpha game is on a whole other level. If anyone can wow you, it’s him.”

You don’t have time to question his words, because Seungkwan starts shedding actual tears, and you have to try and console him without any physical contact. That doesn’t work, of course, so Mingyu steps in. It becomes a whole thing, and before you know it, the words slip from your mind.

Seungcheol comes to your desk and asks you to have lunch with him from then onwards. Every day, you sit with him, without Seungkwan now, and he plops a warm, packed lunch in front of you. When you try to protest, he waves it away in dismissal. The omega in you loves it, you realise, being fed like this. You’re sure there’s something deep rooted in your primal nature that approves of being brought food, especially by an alpha that has made it clear he is interested in you.

You are curious about Seungcheol, and he indulges you in every conversation. You learn that he is the youngest of many brothers, all alphas. He’s an athletic guy. He likes to play sports and travel. He has a small, but very loyal circle of friends. You also learn that he has liked you for a long time. It flatters you, even if you find that thought a bit unbelievable. Seungcheol asks that you tell him about yourself as well, your hobbies, your interests, and what you want for your future. He is an attentive listener, and he often lets you drone on and on without feeling any need to edit you. Your heart flutters at how his eyes soften when he looks at you. How he always maintains a distance. He never touches you, not even once. Every word of his feels like balm on your skin.

He asks you on your first date after courting you for a good two months. And he pulls out all the stops for it. It’s romantic, but not overly so that it would freak you out. You both talk yourselves hoarse about any and every topic under the sun, and by the time he walks you to your door, your entire body is buzzing with a warm, comfortable energy.

“You’re so different, Seungcheol.” You mumble as you lean against the doorframe. He hums inquisitively as he watches you.

“How so?”

“You never ask anything of me.” You watch him. “I don’t understand it.”

Seungcheol sighs, staring off into space for a brief moment.

“I think people get it so wrong.” His voice is so quiet that you almost have to strain to catch it. “Alphas are supposed to be this domineering, uncontrollable, all powerful authority. But that’s just not true. It’s the omegas who are the heart of it. Omegas who hold everything up. An alpha is just…. there to love and protect.”

He stares at his feet then, kicking them slightly.

“I know you struggle with…. touch.” He continues. “I also know that’s not your fault. You’ve been let down so many times that your omega just can’t trust again. I get it.”

When he looks up, his smile is soft, whimsical almost. The dim light of the lobby frames him, makes his brown hair look lighter. “I hope that you can trust me. Not immediately. Not with all of you. But maybe just a little bit.”

When your vision gets misty, you try to blink away the tears, but that only makes them fall past your eyeline. Seungcheol reaches up, ever so slowly, to brush one away with the pad of his thumb. When his skin meets yours, it tingles. Your fingers tremble. You try not to shudder. You close your eyes, and you let his barely there touch linger. He doesn’t pull away. Neither do you.

He holds your hand when he drives.

It starts with just linking his pinky with yours. But you try to take the brave step of allowing more, until your fingers are intertwining with his large, warm ones. His hand in yours feels like an anchor preventing you from floating away. Your omega preens, licks over old wounds, and you try not to think about how good the simple act of holding hands feels. You feel like a teenager, feeling so giddy over just holding hands, but when you see Seungcheol try to tamp down a smile, you let yourself feel this happiness.

He likes placing his hand on your lower back when you walk with him, a silent sign of him being there, someone you can rely on. The first time he scents you, it’s a very cautious brush of his wrist against yours. It makes something uncomfortable zip through your skin, and he doesn’t try it again. But then you miss it, the feeling of him making you just a little bit his, and you shyly brush your wrist over his by yourself during one movie night. He lets you, doesn’t rush, doesn’t stop you. He lets you run your wrist over his until you are satisfied that a part of you smells like him and a part of him smells like you.

Your heat hits the week after that.

It’s more painful this time, since your omega recognizes a specific alpha, knows that there is a potential partner out there who can give you a knot. You cry through it for one night and one day, but then you break, your mind muddled, and you call Seungcheol between broken sobs. His voice only makes you cry more as he tries to placate you over the phone. He knows your omega is being unreasonable. There’s a good chance that you won’t be able to handle it anyway. When he hangs up, you almost fall apart.

You hear knocking on your door an hour later, and your heat-addled brain is convinced that it’s Seungcheol. When you see a random stranger there, an omega at that, your face crumples.

“I come bearing gifts.” The man says with a grin, holding up a large canvas bag. Its familiar scent hits you hard, cedarwood and leather, and you snatch the bag from him. When you open it, you find heaps and heaps of Seungcheol’s clothing. Shirts, sweaters, flannels, and by the smell of them, it is anything he has worn in the last few days. You preen at the scent, shoving your nose into the cloth. It calms you down, you can feel your cramps give way for the first time in hours, and you look up gratefully at the stranger who saved you at a time like this.

His name is Jeonghan, and you remember him from Seungcheol’s stories. You recognise him too, from pictures you’ve seen, now that you aren’t delirious with pain. Jeonghan helps you get back in bed and helps arrange all of Seungcheol’s clothes in your nest. He cooks while you rest, making a good few portions of nutritious, easily heated up stew that will last you for the rest of your heat. He tells you how worried Seungcheol is, how badly he wishes he could be there, and that he hopes his scent can hold you over enough to get you through this. He ends up being right, because after three more slightly less painful nights, your heat finally breaks.

You’re embarrassed when you see Seungcheol next, but he doesn’t seem to mind at all. He assures you that it’s perfectly normal, and he is even flattered that your omega trusts him enough to want his help during your heat. He asks if the clothes helped, and you thank him for them.

“‘M not giving them back though.” You pout. He only laughs heartily.

“I will give you all of them, sweetheart. Just ask.”

Your heart flutters. Your omega purrs, satisfied.

You go over the events of the heat in the following days once it’s over, how badly you wanted him there, how difficult it was to live off his scent alone, especially as it kept fading from his clothes day after day. When he is sprawled on your couch the next Saturday, you finally ask him to scent you.

His eyes go wide, flitting between yours, as if trying to decipher your state of mind.

“Are you sure?” He sits up, forgetting the TV completely. “You have to think about it. Scenting is….. very intimate.”

You nod. “I have thought about it, Cheol. If I didn’t want it, I wouldn’t ask.”

He only hesitates for a moment longer, nodding. “Okay.”

You don’t know what to do with yourself as he turns to face you properly. Your heart is beating fast already, and you play with your fingers, trying to calm down. He must notice, because he reaches for your hands, gently holding them between his own.

“Deep breaths.” He instructs you. “Everything is okay.”

His voice has a deep, calming timbre to it, and you feel yourself soften slightly at his words. This is happening. You are trusting an alpha to invade your most sensitive sense. Despite how nervous you are, you think of the comfort it will bring.

“Can we do it in my nest?”

That catches him by surprise too. That’s two in one day, and if you weren’t so anxious, you would find it a bit comical. But he nods, and you notice how eager it is. Your heart squeezes a bit, and you realise that Seungcheol really has gone so long without acting on his very base instincts of touching and scenting you. His alpha must be restless beyond belief at this point.

Five minutes later, you’re lying on your bed, surrounded by a carefully organized mess of clothes that you’ve built into the perfect nest. You have lots of pieces of clothing in there, and you can see Seungcheol’s nose twitch a bit in annoyance when he catches the scent of another alpha, zeroing in on the wool scarf that once belonged to Mingyu. It’s common knowledge that an omega will create nests from the clothes of any person they find comfort in. You have things from Seungkwan in there too, but they are nothing compared to the huge piles of clothes that belong to Seungcheol, and that placates him a little. He knows that if and when he mates you, he is going to shred Mingyu’s scarf into a million pieces. Until then, you can have it.

He hovers over you, making sure he isn’t crowding you too much. You look more at home here, more at ease, and he wants to think it’s because you are surrounded by his scent. The alpha in his growls deep, satisfied, seeing who he already deems as his omega lying like this between clothes that belong to and smell like him. Your chest rises in a deep inhale before the air leaves you in a long whoosh.

He starts with leaning down to nuzzle against your cheek. You close your eyes, tilting your head to the side and up. You can practically feel how shaky his breath is as you present yourself to him like this, and you marvel at his restraint once again. Your hands clench into fists, and you feel a surge of need in you again.

“Cheolie.” You rasp.

“I’m here.” His breath hits your neck and you shiver at the feeling. Then he leans down to the junction between your neck and shoulder, just over your scent gland. He exhales on it carefully, and it’s warm against your skin. You bite your lower lip hard.

His tongue is tentative as it licks over the now swollen, needy gland. He keeps doing that for a couple of minutes, little kitten licks that relax your limbs the more he swipes over the area. He breathes out again, his breath mixing with the pheromones now coming off you in waves. He leans lower, closer to you, his elbows on either side of your head, before finally latching his lips over your skin to give in a soft suck.

Your back arches involuntarily, pleasure zipping through you. You know your scent is thickening with your arousal, and so is Seungcheol’s. The heady mix of both of them is making your head spin a bit. Seungcheol alternates between licks and sucks, making sure to cover the skin around your glands with his spit too. It feels deliciously territorial, a side of him you have experienced only fleetingly when he places a hand firmly on your waist, or when an alpha gets a bit too close and he stares them down. You wonder about it, about how badly he is holding himself back from pummeling another alpha into the ground when he gets too close. Mingyu has mentioned it a few times, that Seungcheol’s scent sours when he feels jealous. You want to see more of it. You want him to claim you as his.

It’s the first time you feel the need to be claimed, and it makes you whimper. Seungcheol hums into your neck.

“Feel good?” His voice has dropped a few octaves, and the low grunt makes something zip down your core. You barely managed a jerky nod.

“Yes, Alpha.”

The title makes him bristle pleasantly, and he doubles his efforts at making sure your scent glands are bathed in him. He keeps going for what feels like hours. When you walk into the office the next day, Seungkwan’s nose scrunches up, claiming he would confuse you with a mated omega if you reeked even a little bit more.

You get addicted to the feeling of Seungcheol scenting you. And he is more than happy to provide. Every morning, he grips your waist tight, lapping over your neck before you walk into work, making sure everyone in the building knows that you have an alpha you can call your own. He whispers to you how delicious you smell when your scent is mixed with his, how good it makes his alpha feel. You are shy about it still, but he loves it when you carefully and hesitantly kiss over his own scent glands. You don’t know why he would want your scent, but he claims he wants it just as bad, says he is as much yours as you are his.

By the time your next heat rolls around, you are sure you want Seungcheol to spend it with you.

He’s hesitant, naturally. You two have come a long way, but helping you in heat is basically the final step. The end of the line. There’s no coming back from something as intimate as that, and he worries. You know he is only looking out for you, but you also know yourself. There’s no way you can make it through this heat without him now. He could drench his clothes in buckets of his sweat and it still wouldn’t replace the feeling of his lips suckling on your glands, his hands running slowly over your waist. You need him there, and you tell him as much.

Seungcheol takes the preparation during your pre-heat very seriously. He asks for time off for both of you, essentially solidifying in the office what is going to happen. Seungkwan is shameless about it as he teases you, but you whack him upside the head with a thick folder and that shuts him up. Seungcheol shows up at your place with a large bag of his essentials. Anything he will need, some groceries he picked up along the way, and more of his clothes. At this point, you wonder if he has anything left in his closet at all.

He cooks and portions meals for you. He stashes protein bars, electrolyte packets, and a case of water bottles in your room. He doesn’t let you move, telling you to rest as much as you can because you’ll be needing your strength when the heat hits. His implication makes you flush, and you wonder how it will feel. You watch him putter around your room from where you lay in your nest, making sure everything is accessible to him. You’ve never taken a knot before. If you think back to before you met Seungcheol, the very thought of one would repulse you. But as you ponder about it now, him naked over you, skin to skin, shoving the swollen base of his cock inside you, you can’t help but think of how good it will feel.

Seungcheol, as in tune with you as he is, can smell the shift in your scent. He gives you a tiny smile, heavy with understanding.

“Are you still with me, omega?” He asks, leaning over to run a cool hand over the heated skin of your forehead. You hum. Your eyelids feel heavy, and it takes a lot of strength to keep them open. Seungcheol places his hand over your eyes to keep them closed.

“Try and sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

You listen to his words without a second thought. It seems your brain is already shutting down, depending on him to tell you what to do. Your nap is short lived and fitful, and when you wake up again, you are breathing heavily. Your shirt is already sticking to your back. Eyes only half open, vision unfocused, you paw at the shirt, trying to lift your heavy arms so you can pull it off.

“Here. Let me.” His voice cuts through the haze. You can feel his hands, still cooler than your body temperature, grip your shirt so he can tug it off you. Cool air hits you, and you wonder if he has turned the thermostat down to better cater to your needs.

“Better?”

You hum, turning towards the sound. You blink furiously until your vision is clear enough to see his head of thick brown hair to your right. You reach for him.

“Alpha.” Your voice trembles, and a painful cramp shoots through your lower stomach. You wince. Seungcheol is on top of you immediately, leaning down to bite gently on your scent gland, as if coaxing your omega to calm down. It listens, settling a bit.

“I’m here.” His weight on you feels heavenly. You can feel your muscles relax. But the cramp persists. “Tell me what you need.”

“I don’t-” You almost cry out as you feel the cramp sharpen. “I don’t know. Alpha, please-”

He shushes you, hands dipping into the waistband of your shorts until he is tugging them off. They stick to your crotch like skin, leaving wet strings as they part from you. Your inner thighs are already drenched. Seungcheol had noticed as you slept, but he didn’t want to wake you. The more you are turned on, the easier it will be to make you cum multiple times, and the quicker your heat will break in the long run.

He doesn’t wait before he reaches down, carefully rubbing the pads of his fingers over your swollen clit. You gasp and jerk at the feeling, and Seungcheol uses that moment to dip two fingers inside your desperately clenched opening. Your eyes nearly roll up at the feeling, and you don’t hold back your satisfied sigh. It encourages him to sink in to the last knuckle, feeling almost no resistance as your body stretches to accommodate him. All that courting, that dating, that scenting, it may have been slow as hell, near torture for him, but it seems that by now, every cell in your body is moulded to recognise him. He watches you arch into him, your legs spreading more, your pussy greedily sucking his fingers in, and he marvels at how pliant you are under him. You have truly given all of yourself to him, and he takes that as a great responsibility. You’re his omega, bite or not, and he will make sure you are heavy with his pups by the time you leave this nest.

Fuck. Maybe your heat is making him delirious too. His alpha is rearing to knot you. But he needs to prep you first.

You cum on his fingers twice before he even thinks about putting his cock in you. He coaxes each orgasm out of you with the expert curl of his fingers, his lips at your ear, whispering praises that seem to reverberate in your skull about how good you are, the perfect little omega for him, how much he loves your tiny little pussy, how much he loves taking care of you like this, how badly he wants to give you his knot. You’re sobbing by the time he is lining his tip against your entrance, cheeks drenched in heavy tears, still so turned on despite already cumming twice, and when he penetrates you, sinks into you in one fell swoop, you lock around him and cum hard for the third time. He groans, long and low, struggling against the feeling of your walls fluttering around him, watching you writhe under him.

“Good girl.” He coos, voice so gravelly and deep that you could cum again just hearing him talk. “So good for me. So perfect.”

You’re lightheaded, the air feels like cotton pressing into your skin. Your limbs have no power, and you are surprised you can even spread your legs for Seungcheol. Just his massive cock sinking into you is enough to drive you up the wall, and when he finally starts moving, you wail.

Seungcheol encourages you every step of the way. He coaxes you to talk through the rough pounding, even if your words are incoherent and choppy. You babble on about how good his cock feels, how badly you want his knot and his cum. Every sound from you seems to rile him up even more. When you keen, your omega whining long and high pitched in the depths of your chest, it only spurs him on. He fucks you through another orgasm before the base of his cock finally starts to swell, and at the promise of a knot, you writhe desperately.

He shoves himself inside you, knot swelling and locking inside your weeping pussy as he groans and finally cums, flooding your insides with his seed. Tingles run over your skin, through your very bones, as the desperate, primal creature inside you settles, finally sedated, finally happy. Seungcheol’s torso undulates over you, bare skin to bare skin, prolonging his own high so he can dump more of his load inside you. He is shiny with sweat and exertion, and you admire him as the fog in your head lifts. His hair falls over his eyes, and his lips are pretty pink from being bitten raw. You pull him down by his broad shoulders, nuzzling into his neck, nibbling on the skin. He hums and lets you stake your claim on him.

“Better?”

You nod, allowing him to pull you both so you are lying on your sides, waiting for the knot to go down. Your muscles feel muted, like someone flipped a switch inside you. By the time Seungcheol’s knot goes down, you are almost half asleep. He tries his best to make you stay awake long enough to down a bottle of water and a protein bar, promising you food when you wake up next, tucking you carefully into your nest.

The next few days are bliss.

You never associated heats with anything good before. They were always painful experiences, a flurry of cramps and dizziness, like a trial you had to get through. But Seungcheol flips the script around. He pumps you full whenever you ask for it, knot after knot, until you are so satisfied that you can’t think straight, can’t even speak right. You are covered, inside and out, with him. He litters your body with his marks, tongue and teeth working overtime to make sure that no part of you is unblemished. He feeds you during your lucid intervals, bathes you when he can, then fucks another knot into you until you are tuckered out again. When day four hits, your heat finally breaks, and you are more grateful for him than you are for yourself. You can’t imagine it’s easy to keep up with you.

“Are you kidding?” He grins, stretching out beside you in your nest. “You’re a dream. I couldn’t have asked for a better omega. You were so perfect for me, every single day of your heat.”

You flush at the praise. It somehow hits even harder than the words he whispered while driving his cock into you in the throes of heat. He nuzzles your neck, sighing and relaxing beside you, licking over your scent gland. There’s no need for that. You reek of him anyway. But you let him do it, dreaming of the day his teeth break the barrier of your skin there, making you his permanently.

You hope that day comes quicker.

The city of Yvelo II is especially crowded this time of day it seems. Kylo can feel the occasional pair of eyes on him, people curious about the owner of the fancy ship that just landed in the bay. He pays them no mind, all of them inconsequential to his mission on this worthless planet. He didn’t even want to waste his time here, but multiple generals on his council were insistent. There were strong leads that pointed here, suggesting a spy the Order is after is finding refuge on Yvelo II. He’d been told it would be worth checking out at least, so off he’d went.

He hadn’t brought Stormtroopers with him, instead choosing two of his Knights. They’re significantly better at keeping a low profile compared to the bright, shiny white spotlight Troopers make in a crowd. Not to mention their Force abilities will be crucial in trying to find an individual in the masses. Ap’lek and Kuruk stand next to Kylo now, covered head to toe in their typical array of weapons and black armor.

“Fan out. Find what you can.” Kylo orders. “Alert me when you get something.”

Both of the Knights nod, going forward and immediately disappearing into the ebb and flow of the city. Kylo decides to go in a different direction, trying to cover as much ground as possible. If this mission ends up being entirely worthless, he thinks he’s going to gut whoever came up with it in the first place.

The heat of all the collected bodies and heavy atmosphere presses in on him, sweat collecting beneath his mask and black padded armor, making it feel like it’s stuck to his skin. He knows it’s also making his scent all the more pungent, especially when a few heads turn as he passes by, their own noses assaulted by his alpha pheromones.

He does his best to weave amongst the streams of people, his hood drawn up in an attempt to make himself more inconspicuous, hiding the majority of his newly reconstructed helmet. Merchant carts line the streets, sellers yelling out their wares and deals to try and attract anyone with enough credits. He passes by more than a few squabbles, some started over something as petty as being bumped into while others are about trying to swindle a better deal. There’s restaurants made out of run down buildings mixed into the mess, all of them seeming to be full with lines out the door.

It’s all very loud, creating a jumble of thoughts and noises inside Kylo’s mind that he can barely make sense of. He knew this mission was stupid, he truly didn’t know why he let himself be persuaded to do it. Even with his Knights, he has very few hopes of finding a spy that might be on the planet. Some of the notes about the mission suggested the western sector of the main city, so that’s where he tries to head now. There’s a ring of informants that lives in the area, selling themselves to whoever has more to offer.

Kylo has to shoulder his way through the denser parts of the crowd, his height and width always coming in handy. He even gets the rare person jumping out his way when they smell him coming—he likes when that happens. It satisfies that primal part of himself.

The throngs of people begin to thin the farther he gets from the market square, allowing him to finally hear his own thoughts and make sense of the ones of those around him. None of them are worth anything; one is thinking about what she’ll make her family for dinner, another is cursing about having to spend so much on a ship part, and all the rest follow the same meaningless pattern.

Until there’s something that makes him stop in his tracks.

It feels as though someone just dragged their fingers up his spine, a shiver running through his body. There’s a singular, female voice that’s louder than the others, as if it’s being projected to him specifically. Although based on what she’s saying, it doesn’t seem like it’s on purpose, making Kylo all the more curious. She’s the one thing he can hear clearly, the only thing he can understand as everything else fades. There’s a rasp to her voice from misuse, from having to yell across a workers line. It’s… oddly soothing, calming something deep within him on default. It creates a very strong, very irresistible urge to keep that voice close.

Kylo tries to take a singular step forward and fails when he feels such a strong tug in his chest that it jerks him backwards. It startles him, setting him on edge with his hand against his lightsaber that rests on his hip. One word rings clearly and unexpectedly in his mind: mate. His blood seems to sing, pounding in his ears as everything in his biology screams at him to follow that tug. He has to help her, protect her, protect his omega-

He shakes his head roughly, his breathing becoming labored. His thoughts are jumbled, turned into a cacophony of desperate thoughts surrounding this mysterious voice. He doesn’t know what’s come over him and he finds he’s unable to use the Force to center himself, the otherworldly power instead exacerbating his problem. It projects this woman even more, to the point he can almost taste her on the roof of his mouth with just the smallest inkling of her scent, something so heavenly and right that he needs to get his hands on it before he jumps out of his skin. He feels an ache in his own scent glands, like his body knows how close it is to something he’s been looking for without realizing.

He has no choice. He has to follow that voice, that pull, that feral need.

He has to find her.

» ☆ «

You wipe sweat from your brow for the hundredth time. Lupar’s never wanted to invest in some fucking air conditioners in the workshop, despite complaints from every person that’s stepped inside. It’s suffocating, but you’ve gotten so used to it that it’s like a second home. It’s strenuous work for little pay, but it still manages to put food on the table and even allows you to get a drink every now and then.

You’ve worked for Lupar for around ten years now, finding your way into his shop when you were twelve and sticking around since. You’d been interested in the heavy-set male with gills on the side of his neck, webbed fingers, and pale green skin. It made you wonder why an aquatic like him chose to live on a hot, dry planet like this one.

You stayed because of Lupar’s generosity, something different from the flat out cruelty other workshop owners partook in. Besides, there’s worse things you could be wasting your life on than making ship parts in the back of his store. Lupar sells them for cheaper than most other vendors so people are always buying from him, luckily keeping you employed.

You’ve been promoted multiple times throughout the course of your time, steadily moving up the line all the way to where you are now: quality control. You stand at the end of the line, inspecting each piece as it comes your way for any loose or missing bits, then dipping it into its final sealant once it’s deemed satisfactory. The chemicals always burn your hands through the shitty gloves you wear but your skin has become so rough and calloused that you barely notice anymore.

Lupar trusts you more than any of the others, giving you the job of keeping everyone straight and making sure there’s no slackers. The whip that sits on your belt is telling enough of your status, though you’ve never used it and never plan on it. Simply yelling at anyone not pulling their weight is usually enough to solve the problem. Most of the workers are kids, just like you were when you started. You still have the scars on your back from the times you messed up around the wrong person.

“Zara, straighten up!” You shout. The teen immediately snaps back to attention, her shoulders hunching as she twists her pieces of metal tighter together like she should be. You’d noticed a few of them coming loose in the line, thus tracing it back to a specific part in the process. You huff, taking a rather heavy piece and dipping it into the coating and handing it off to Qiar who puts it on a massive drying rack.

Your life has fallen into an easy pattern. You wake up in your nearby apartment, you work for Lupar from dusk til dawn, and then you go home and do it all again the next day. You gave up your dreams of leaving a long time ago, never having the funds and always being fearful of the what the rest of the galaxy might have in store for an omega like yourself. You owe a lot to Lupar; he was the one that helped you when you presented at thirteen, giving you some of the basic supplies you needed just to survive your first heat.

It was the most unbearable thing you’d ever experienced, but he’d told you that you had to go through at least one to make sure your body didn’t go all out of wack. After that, he’s kept you strictly on suppressants. You aren’t sure where he gets them from and they’re definitely sketchy but they work so you couldn’t give less of a shit. Lupar provides them for all aberrant workers, just so he won’t have to lose them for a week to a heat or rut. It’s less than stellar, but if it allows you to ignore your biology then you’ll take it.

You’re about to take another hunk of metal before you feel it.

A prickle on the back of your neck, the hairs along your arms raising like there’s been a sudden chill despite the workshop being boiling. There’s a ringing that starts in your ears, your head feeling as though it’s been shoved underwater as all the noise around you becomes muffled. You stumble back a step, your eyes shutting in a wince. You don’t know what it is, you don’t know what’s happening, and your heart seems like it’ll beat out of your chest. You can feel a presence just at the corners of your consciousness, massive and dark and intimidating and also so, so… alluring. Something deep, deep inside of you that you haven’t felt for years is desperate for that unfamiliar entity, yearns for it so deeply it makes you ill.

Your lungs constrict in your chest, overcome with nerves and an innate instinct of fear and submission. The scent glands along your neck throb to a near painful degree, as if they’re trying to call out to something but are too blocked by your suppressants to do so. You tentatively reach up a shaking hand, pressing one finger to a gland and immediately regretting it from the ache that meets you. They’re probably flaring red if you had to guess, still unable to emit any scent. Your skin feels like it’s crawling with some kind of primal need you can’t recognize, that dark presence still thrumming along the edges of your mind.

You want it to go away, trying to say so again and again inside your head but it persists as if it can’t hear you, like you have no control. You’re confused, you’re scared, and your body is demanding something you don’t know of. You dig your teeth so sharply into your tongue you can taste blood coating your mouth, the iron tang so sharp it finally snaps you out of it. That, and someone shouting your name right next to your ear.

Your vision clears, your ears cease their ringing. Your breath comes back to you in a gasp, lungs finally free of the fist that was holding them. Qiar is next to you, looking at you with vague concern. “Hey, come on! Get back to work!” He says roughly, motioning to the back up of parts on the table.

“Right-” you begin to speak before blood dribbles down your bottom lip. It seems you bit yourself harder than you thought. “Fuck- sorry-“

Qiar lays a hand on your shoulder and you immediately twist away from him, the touch seeming to burn and feeling wrong. His brows crease. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just- just keep working.” You spit, trying to swallow the blood in your mouth and not choke as you dip a ship part. You can breathe again but your muscles are still tense and it feels like there’s something you’re forgetting. It’s going to drive you mad, you think.

There’s a sudden lull in the line and you’re so busy trying to catch up that you don’t notice for a good few minutes. You’re about to yell at somebody before you hear what they’ve all paused to listen to. There’s shouting and also plenty of things being tossed around and crashing to the ground. It’s not unusual, sometimes Lupar does get the occasional unruly customer, but said customers have never busted down the fucking door.

A lot of the younger kids scream and cower when the door to the workshop goes flying off its hinges. A cloaked stranger in a mask stands in the doorway, his massive build filling the frame and blocking anyone from escape. You notice the weapon ignited at his side before anything else. A lightsaber, spitting red plasma with an unstable crackle to it that you’ve never heard of before. You read about lightsabers and Jedi and all that bullshit when you were younger and had a fascination with them, but you never thought you’d be met with one. Everything about this man sets you on edge; his black robes, his helmet full of red cracks, his chest heaving… and the fact he looks directly at you.

You flinch under his gaze even despite not being able to see his eyes. That muffled sensation from earlier returns, your head swimming as you gasp in pain. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s your own, instead feeling like an animal pacing in a cage, desperate to get out to whatever waits on the other side. Your blood is on fire beneath your skin, and so are your stagnant scent glands.

You can’t do anything as he walks up to you, methodical and predatory. Your limbs refuse to move, gripped tightly by some invisible force. You realize you’re completely at the mercy of this strange man.

Then his scent washes over you.

It reminds you instantly of rain in a forest, giving you the taste of something you’ve never been able to experience. It’s cooling and relaxing, like a fresh breeze blowing across your face. There’s depths to his scent that you haven’t smelled in other aberrants before; cold rain mixed with a gentle tinge of pine and then under it all is something smoky like a campfire, something that promises a strong personality, a strong alpha. It’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever scented, it’s an immediate balm to your burning skin. It soothes that deep, primal thing within you but does nothing to help against your regular, human panic.

“It’s you.” He says lowly, his deep, modulated voice sending shivers down your sweaty back. There’s a curiosity that edges his tone, like he doesn’t quite understand you standing before him—or why he’s been pulled to you. He reaches a gloved palm forward, easily gripping your chin in his fingers and moving your head from side to side. Just that touch is enough to send lightning sparking through your veins. 

You can feel his eyes on your scent glands and it makes you squirm. “Why can’t I smell you?” He speaks as if talking to himself, though you hear the distaste in his tone and his complete disappointment at your blocked scent glands. It irrationally makes you want to apologize, apologize for upsetting this alpha and ever taking suppressants in the first place. What the hell?

“Who are you?” You finally manage to say, trying to steel your voice so you can sound like the opposite of how you feel. He’s much bigger than you, both in height and build, your head having to tilt up slightly just to look into his visor. You’re obviously outclassed, especially with him still holding that lightsaber.

You’re so caught up in each other that you didn’t notice the commotion happening beside you, where Qiar is shoved to the floor by a man dressed very similarly to the one in front of you. “Get off of me!” Qiar shouts, angrily thrashing against his captor, though he has no hope of breaking free. You’re stomach churns when you hear a sickly snap followed by your coworker’s pained screams. He’s hoisted to his feet, tears falling down his sallow face, his body threatening to go limp.

“Master, this is the one we’ve been looking for.” The man says, his voice even deeper and rougher. He reeks of pure alpha—leather and metal and salt, the scent sharp and unpleasant against the roof of your mouth.

“Take him back to the ship.” The one in front of you orders, finally letting go of your jaw. “You’re coming with me, omega.”

You startle at the use of your designation; you haven’t been referred to that way in a long time. You feel the fight rise within you, trying to ignore that other part of you that howls with desperation to go with this threatening man. You bare your teeth, trying your best to growl. It’s a pathetic imitation of something an alpha could do, the sound coming out like a sad garble in your throat. It’s still enough to set off some of the alphas around you, their bodies tensing when they hear your distress call. No one’s coming to save you though.

“I’m not going anywhere with you.” You snap. You manage a single step backwards before he’s reaching for you, gripping your arm with a leather clad hand and pulling you back towards him. Your instincts flare, a hiss ripping from you as you flail in his hold, kicking and trying to elbow your way out. It doesn’t work of course, that padded armor he wears doing a good job of protecting him from your weak assault.

“Omega, enough.” The man snarls and… oh. Your body has no choice but to comply. You have to choke back the whine that almost comes out as you struggle to lift your arm for another hit. You become weak in his hold, that alpha voice enough to make even the angriest of omegas turn docile. You’ve never before cursed your biology as much as you do in this moment. You want to continue fighting, to break free and run away but that pathetic thing inside of you has taken over, telling you to listen to the alpha.

He scoops your legs out from under you with a strong arm, holding you to him in a bridal carry as if you weigh nothing. With your face pressed against his tunic, you have no choice but to breathe in an abundance of his heavenly scent. It seems to finally be doing its job and forcing its way into your system and under your skin, bypassing your dosage of suppressants to get your muscles to release their tension and give in.

It all dissipates when you see Lupar’s body on the floor at the front of the shop.

Your flailing movements are so sudden that the man drops you, your knees banging painfully against hard concrete as an agonized scream explodes from you. “No! No, no, no!” You beg, your hands finding his already cooling body and turning him over. There’s a cauterized hole in his chest, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Sobs are wracking you before you even realize. Lupar had saved you, he helped you feed yourself and protected you from more pain than you could imagine and this… this is the death he gets?

You’re torn from his body by strong hands around your middle pulling you back. “Get the fuck off me!” You screech, fighting with everything in you, alpha bullshit be damned. You wish you had a blaster, you wish you knew how to use the whip Lupar gave you, you wish you had anything to help you.

“Quiet, omega-” The man says, though the command doesn’t have that edge this time, like he’s trying to give you a choice.

“Fuck you!!” You yell in response, feeling satisfied in yourself when you wheel back your elbow hard enough into his ribs to make him grunt.

It doesn’t last long though. That invisible pressure from before returns, pinning your arms to your sides while your muscles strain in an attempt to escape. You show your small fangs, the growls coming easier this time, fueled by your rage. The alpha hesitates for only a second, clearly off-put by the blatant disobedience and rejection. He quickly collects himself, bringing a gloved hand forward and hovering it in front of your face. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you feel a very sharp pull on your consciousness. You try to resist, to fight back and stay awake, but you find it impossible as your vision starts to go black at the edges. That strong will slips further and further out of your grasp like sand falling from between your fingers.

You have no choice but to give in to the darkness.

» ☆ «

“Find something extra, master?” Kuruk jests when he sees Kylo emerge from the crowds with you securely in his arms.

However, Kylo is in no mood for jokes and so he snarls at the other alpha instead. The Force hangs heavy and dark around him, his scent thick with something tangy that’s downright unpleasant to any competitors nearby. It’s a very loud and clear warning to stay away from the omega he carries. Kuruk bows his head as Kylo passes him on the ramp into the Night Buzzard, fully admitting his submission simply to avoid a conflict on the journey back to base. Kuruk hasn’t seen his master like this before, but he knows good and well what a territorial alpha who just found his mate is capable of. Force only knows what the mighty Kylo Ren would do if any of them misstepped. He’s like a ticking time bomb.

Kylo takes the furthest possible seat from Kuruk and Ap’lek, who sits at one of the weapon control panels fixing calibrations. Kylo can smell Qiar on the ship somewhere, his misery sour on Kylo’s tongue, locked away in one of the prison cells to suffer with his broken arm and collarbone. Kylo curls his body around yours, hiding you within the darkness of his cape and shielding you from any wandering eyes. He’s never felt this on edge, like at any moment someone might try and take you from him and so he needs to be ready. His mind is a useless ramble of mine, mine, omega safe, protect, mine over and over and he finds he’s unable to shake off those thoughts. Not when you look so peaceful as you sleep, so wonderfully his.

The ship rumbles to life beneath his boots, Kuruk taking his place in the pilot’s seat. It’ll be at least two hours before they make it back to the Steadfast which gives Kylo more than enough time to look you over. He doesn’t understand the urges he has, the deep desire to know every single thing about you and see each inch inside and out. He’s never been this confused, he’s never had so little control of the Force, and he’s never felt such a connection to anyone before. But at the same time, nothing has ever felt so right either. Having you in his arms soothes something in him he didn’t know needed to be soothed and he never wants to let go of that feeling.

You shift suddenly in his arms, a small whimper escaping you as you shift through a dreamless sleep. It makes Kylo encase you a little more, bringing his head down so he can hear every sound you make. His eyes catch on your scent glands, on the red, swollen skin that he wants nothing more than to run his tongue over. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s bumping the muzzle of his helmet against your neck, trying so desperately to coax your scent out. His breathing is unsteady through the filter in his mask, his chest rising and falling erratically in hopes that he could catch just a whiff.

It angers him that he can’t smell you at all, that he can’t properly scent his omega because of the damn suppressants running through your system. Knowing Yvelo II, the medication is probably shady and unsafe and he just hopes it hasn’t permanently damaged your health after all this time. Getting you examined will be the first order of business when they make it back to the Steadfast.

Finally abandoning the fruitless endeavor of trying to get your scent, Kylo takes note of all the other things that you need to be treated for. He picks up one of your arms gingerly in his gloved hand, studying the chemical burns that crawl halfway up your forearms. Your skin is splotchy and irritated, scars layered over one another in some attempt at strengthening your arms and hands against whatever acid that sweatshop was using. There’s a few fresh burns, cracked and caked with dried blood. He also saw the scars laced across your back, the ends of them poking out from your tank top. They seem to be from a whip of some kind, probably the same one you still have attached to your hip.

It maddens him, seeing how much pain his omega has gone through. Some insane part of him hisses that he should’ve done better, should’ve protected you as if he didn’t just find out you existed today. He has to shake his head to clear that voice, to try and get a grip on himself before he loses it entirely. He has you now, that’s all that matters.

Kylo huffs to himself, then noticing the already dark purple bruises on your knees. From when he’d dropped you. He does allow himself to feel some guilt about that—it was partially his fault after all. He wasn’t expecting you to fight him so much, and how was he supposed to know you’d be so distraught over that worthless fish-man? The one who had attempted to keep you from him? The way you’d sobbed and screamed over the shop owner had set something inside Kylo on edge and he’d tried to help you, but you refused to listen. He put you to sleep with the Force instead, just so he could take you back and not have to see your blatant distress anymore.

He uses the Force now to make sure you’re still deeply asleep, to make sure you won’t suddenly wake up and start throwing a fit with other, dangerous alphas around. The door to your mind is wide open to him, your defenses nonexistent in your unconscious state. He can sense the undercurrents of your emotions, the unease and fear and panic that consumed you moments before you were taken out. He centers himself to be able to walk through your mind, to rifle through your memories as though they’re stored away in a filing cabinet. He has to feed that insatiable desire to know everything about you and doing it while you can’t fight him seems like the easiest way.

Kylo sees how monotonous your days had been leading up to him finding you. You’d wake up in a dingy, run down, one room apartment, go to work in that hazardous sweatshop, and then go back home once the sun got low. Your memories go back for years like this, an endless cycle of just getting through this day and the next with barely any difference in between, save for an occasional visit to a cheap bar. He passes by all of that, lets it run through his fingers like smoke, searching for something deeper.

He discovers you have no family to speak of, your mother dying in childbirth and your father abandoning you once you were old enough to scrounge for scraps yourself. You were a feisty young thing, getting into tussles with other kids on the streets over food or odd jobs so you could get a few credits for the week. He sees when that man, Lupar, found you behind his shop, when he offered you a job and some sense of safety in the harsh environment of Yvelo II. Kylo almost can’t believe you stayed around for that long, all the way from twelve to you now being twenty-two.

Kylo digs into the memories of Lupar, of the suppressants he gave you every day. It kept you from having to deal with your biology, from ever having to seek out someone to put out the burning fire of need. Something in Kylo perks at that, knowing you’re untouched, like you were waiting for him all this time. He already knew that he had to help you, keep you safe, set you straight so you don’t have to suffer anymore—this just confirms it.

He’s pulled from your mind with the familiar quake of the Night Buzzard signaling it’s being docked. He looks up from you to the viewport, seeing the walls of one of the Steadfast’s many hangars. Kuruk stands from the pilot’s seat after switching off the controls, him and Ap’lek heading towards the back to drag the prisoner off the ship to be interrogated by Kylo later.

Kylo follows after, still holding you impossibly tight, finally bringing you into your new home.

» ☆ «

You barely recall anything, what you manage to catch being a blur as you slip in and out of consciousness seemingly against your will. You only catch a few things like bright lights and white walls, a new and sterile smell assaulting your nostrils, people poking and prodding at you—some with needles—and through all of it, that man swathed in black. He’s always there, right at the edge of your vision, watching over you with eyes you can’t see.

Kylo never once looks away from you while the medics examine you, as they run their endless tests. It takes everything in him to not grab you from them, the irritation of them touching you biting beneath his skin. He knows that the nurses can feel the pressure of him in the room, especially after he already grabbed the wrist of one when she went to give you the first of many vaccines. He couldn’t help it, the beast inside him snarling to not let them anywhere near you.

“Where did you find this omega, Supreme Leader?” The head doctor asks, the older woman studying him over the rim of her glasses. She clearly holds some suspicion towards him, towards the fact that he’s never before brought an omega on board but now he’s suddenly appeared with one he’d be willing to kill her whole staff for.

“Yvelo II. She was an inhabitant there.” Kylo responds, his voice crackling through his mask. “I was… drawn to her.”

The doctor hums. “I figured as much. Based on your reaction to her, this looks like a case of a fated pairing. An alpha and omega being so inexplicably perfect for one another, through a mixture of pheromones and preset genetic coding. To put it simply, there’s no one else more compatible for either party than each other. I assume it’s even stronger for you because of the Force.” She says. “It’s fascinating since this has become an increasingly rare phenomenon in recent years.”

Kylo doesn’t respond, but he mulls the information over in his head. It explains why the Force showed you to him in the first place, why he couldn’t do anything other than search for you on that backwater planet. He’s surprised that someone like himself would even have a fated pairing; he thought that those were just a myth. He nods towards you. “What of her? What’s her condition? The status of her cycles?”

The doctor sighs while scrolling through her data pad full of information on you. “She’s not in the best shape, though it’s expected for a resident of a planet like Yvelo II. She’s malnourished and dehydrated, but we’re giving her fluids now, and her chemical burns have been treated with some simple bacta. The suppressants she’s been on aren’t dangerous per se, and the dosage is surprisingly low, but her being on them since she presented certainly isn’t good. There’s a solution in her IV to help flush the rest of them out and as soon as they are, her body will immediately self-regulate and send her into heat.” She explains, her voice almost taking on a grave tone. “You’ll need to make sure she eats enough if you’re going to make her go through a cycle after so many years. It won’t be easy on the poor thing.”

“I know that.” Kylo snaps, visibly bristling under her scrutiny. “Don’t treat me like a fool, doctor.”

She doesn’t cower, merely meeting his steely gaze behind his helmet. “I’m not, I’m simply looking out for my patient, Supreme Leader.”

» ☆ «

You don’t know how long it’s been when you finally wake up, when you at last have control over your own mind and body.

You sit up slow, cautious of both your surroundings and the faint pounding in your head. You quickly realize you’re in a bedroom, though it’s not like any you’ve ever seen before. This one is bigger than your entire apartment back home.

Panic jolts through you at the thought, your memories rushing back to you in a suffocating wave. You remember the strange man, getting kidnapped, Lupar’s death—all of it making you spring up from the very comfortable bed you’d been laid in. You need to get out of here, before that man comes back.

There isn’t much in the bedroom besides a small bookcase, a desk, and two bedside tables, all of it in a matching dark color scheme. There’s large windows near the bed, revealing the glittering stars outside that stretch on for farther than you could ever imagine. It doesn’t bode well for your hope of escape if you’re in the middle of space. You try to ignore the scent that’s so thick in the room it coats the roof of your mouth—the scent of him. It threatens to cloud your thoughts, the weaker part of you telling you that you should just stay here in this heavenly smell, get cozy and wrap yourself in it. You refuse, heading for the door instead and finding it unlocked.

You open it into an even bigger room, this one looking to be some kind of general living space. Theres a couch and coffee table to your left, another bookcase and more doors to the right, and ahead of you is a small kitchen area. There’s a dining table next to it and on it is a wide assortment of food, more food than you think you’ve ever seen in your life. All different kinds from meats to fruits to cheeses and breads—it’s quite possibly anything you could think of. Your mouth immediately waters at the sight, your stomach howling in response, the tantalizing smells making you dizzy with hunger. Your meals on Yvelo II mostly consisted of stale foods that vendors didn’t want anymore or freeze dried packets from the cheapest place in town, never something like this.

You have to use every ounce of willpower to refrain from eating everything in sight, reminding yourself you’re in an unfamiliar place with a dangerous man undoubtedly nearby. It’s odd that you haven’t seen him yet though, that you can’t even sense him. It probably means you should use this opportunity to try and escape before he returns.

You try the most obvious route first—the main door. You aren’t surprised that it won’t open, but you figured you’d try anyway. You notice a silver plate next to the hexagonal doors, inscribed with a name and identification number. Kylo Ren. Considering the singular scent covering the whole space, you figure that’s the name of its owner, of the man who brought you here. The name is vaguely familiar from the pamphlets of propaganda that would occasionally reach Yvelo II, telling the galaxy of his accomplishments and plans. All you know about him is how deadly he is, how people would talk of his brutality, of the lightsaber he wields. You really need to get out of here.

You try the other doors in the room, seeing if maybe you could find a vent or something to crawl into, but each door you try is locked save for the bathroom. You curse under your breath, wiping your clammy palms on the new set of black pants you wear, the ones that are oddly well-fit to your figure, same with the dark gray tank top on your torso. It’s sad to admit they’re the best clothes you’ve ever worn.

You’re shocked when the final door you try opens, but your hopes are quickly dashed upon discovering it’s just a spacious closet. There’s nothing in it except for… a spread out comforter, pillows, and blankets? You pause in the doorway, your body swaying with how thick Kylo’s scent is inside, like every item was rubbed right against his glands. It’s intoxicating and pure alpha, easily fogging your mind, making heat prickle on the back of your neck. You stumble forward without thinking, your knees sinking into the plush comfort, his smell wrapping around you like a second skin.

You visibly shudder at the perfection, of all the nice soft materials soaked in an alpha’s scent… so good for nesting. The thought is foreign to you, never before needing to build a nest, never having the materials for one, never having a whole room for it before. You barely recall the singular time you did make one during your first heat, where you desperately tried to fit together your only two blankets and pillow into something satisfactory and it never being enough. But this is like heaven for the primal thing inside you, so comfortable and safe and warm. You know you should be irritated at the fact Kylo assumed you’d want something like this from him, that he used it to lure you in, but the smoldering, uncomfortable heat you feel building in your veins is enough to make you ignore that.

There’s a low whine that comes from you without you even realizing, the sound echoing through the space. Sweat has begun to bead at your brow, your limbs becoming shaky, and worst of all is the pressure you feel between your legs. It has your nails digging in to the comforter below you, your mouth dropping open in an attempt to breathe but just getting more of Kylo’s scent instead and making it worse. You know your underwear is already damp, sticking to your cunt with your slick. You gasp as a cramp clenches your lower abdomen, your body curling in on itself in pain. Past the haze in your mind you’re confused; you should still be on suppressants, they should still be working- unless they- unless Kylo-

“Good, you found it.”

You jump at the deep voice, forcing yourself to sit up, even if you have no hope of fighting anyone off in your state. Standing there, right on the threshold of your nest, is Kylo… but without the mask. You hate to admit that he’s beautiful with his rounded jaw and sharp nose, his strong features dotted with freckles, his black hair that curls delicately just past his nape. Theres a long, deadly scar bisecting the left side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar and making you wonder how far it goes. His chocolate brown eyes almost seem too soft for someone like him, someone so full of wrath and anger.

Those eyes look over you now, studying, calculating. His nostrils flare when your scent finally hits him, those damn suppressants gone at last. It’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, so sweet and honeyed from the onset of your heat, calling directly to those alpha instincts inside of him. He can see how badly you need him in your flushed skin, the quivering in your arms and legs, and the thick, cloying scent of your slick is undeniable. He’d step in and claim you right now if he could, but there’s that annoying part of him telling him he can’t enter your nest without permission, can’t invade your safe space.

You’ve scooted away from him as much as you can, your back pressed against the wall, though it does nothing to lessen his scent, fresher now with him standing right in front of you. You try to ignore the slick staining your pants, the ache that wracks your entire body. “You… you killed Lupar.” You manage to spit out, attempting to sound tough but ultimately failing with how much your words shake.

“He was harboring a spy.” Kylo says simply. And hurting you, he almost adds.

Your head shakes, trying to clear the fog. “There were kids that depended on him.”

“They’ll find someone else. There’s always scum to replace scum.”

“You’re a monster.” You say with as much venom as you can muster.

Kylo’s gaze narrows, the air shifting, his scent turning sharp for just a second. “I may be, but I still saved you, omega. Kept you from rotting away in that worthless place.”

“Don’t call me that.” You snap.

His head tilts, mocking. “Why? It’s what you are, isn’t it? My omega, my mate, it’s all the same.”

That manages to break you out of it for a few moments, your brow furrowing. “Mate? The hell are you talking about? I’m not anybody’s damn mate.”

The corner of his lip lifts in amusement. “Theres that bite from before.” He says. He then sighs. “I know you feel it too, that pull to me. We’re meant to be, you and I. It’s why you’re going into heat right now, omega.”

You whimper, folding over yourself again as the cramps return tenfold as if on cue. Sweat soaks your clothes, a raging fire of need and desire burning beneath your skin. “No.. no I-“ You try, refusing to succumb to your biology, to this stupid cycle that renders you helpless, to the horror of it.

“You didn’t think you could be on those suppressants the rest of your life, did you?” Kylo asks, watching as you writhe, hunger blazing in his eyes. “You won’t be touching them again. You won’t need them.”

“F-fuck off.” You bite out, trying so hard to ignore the voice in your head begging for him, for an alpha, to be mated good and proper like you’ve always needed, to get stuck on a knot and filled- “shit-“

“I know it hurts, sweetheart. Just let me help you.” Kylo says, gently this time, coaxing you. Everything in him is telling him to take you, the beginnings of a rut already starting to claw at his mind. He can’t help palming at the erection tenting his pants, the stimulation making him groan.

“I- I can’t.. f-fuck-“ you gasp, words broken by your heat, by the need too strong to ignore despite your struggle. The pain ruins you, and the omega inside you that’s always been neglected wants him more than anything, wants to—for once—be cared for. You’re looking up at him without another thought, desperate hands reaching towards him. “Kylo, please-“

Before you can even blink, before you can regret what you’ve said, he’s on you. His plush lips meet your own in a bruising kiss, his warm body presses firm against yours, your space no longer being your own and instead becoming a shared thing between you. You openly whine into his mouth, his scent fully enveloping you, his strong hands gripping your waist. It feels so right to have him there, to have him kissing you with a hot and sloppy possession, appreciative noises rumbling low in his chest. He shrugs off his cape, tossing it somewhere to the side, his tunic, gloves, and undershirt following after to be added to your nest. The smell of them is potent, making you more than pleased with the prime nesting material.

You moan when his lips trail down to your jaw, then the column of your throat, stopping at the scent glands at the base of your neck. He presses his nose to one and growls, his hold on you tightening as a shiver runs through his body. “Can finally scent you. I’ll fucking cover you in me.” He mutters, mouthing at the sensitive gland, running his tongue along the inflamed skin, your whines growing louder.

You paw at his now exposed back, nails digging in to the wide expanse of scarred muscle. You can’t help doing the same thing he is, sucking at his own scent glands, his taste flooding your mouth. It helps to quench some of the fire raging within you, soothes the ache between your legs for a split second with that pure alpha smell. It’s everything an omega could want, full of promises of protection and warmth and pups.

“Barely even touched you and you already want my pups?” Kylo says, voice dangerously low and amused, his breath fanning across your neck. You can hear the subtle pride in his voice, his teeth flashing right next to where your mating bite would go. “Good girl.”

You’d forgotten how easily he can read your thoughts, feeling your desire like it’s his own. You gasp as another wave hits you, heat flashing through your body, a gush of slick pooling in your underwear. It has you scrabbling for him, your mind fully clouded over. “Please, please Kylo- I need- it hurts- I need you-“ You beg, words beginning to slur together.

“I know, sweetheart, I’ll make it better.” He tells you, his hands working your pants and underwear down your legs. You shiver when the cold air hits your exposed skin, your pussy drenched and glistening in your own arousal. The scent of it is like a drug, flooding Kylo’s senses, making his head spin. He curses, eyes locked on to your cunt, saliva pooling in his mouth as he spreads your knees apart. He wants badly to lick you clean, collect every drop of slick you’d give him, but he knows you wouldn’t be able to handle that now. Your face is a flushed mess, limbs shaking and subtly trying to shut your legs.

“Easy.” He warns, voice thick with the lust sparking in his blood. You whimper at his tone, your biology forcing you to comply and go still. His chest heaves with his breath, each inhale embedding your scent further into his lungs. “I’ll take my time with you later.”

You jolt at the feeling of two fingers dragging through your folds, coating them in slick. Your moans turn breathless and you hide your face in his shoulder as he circles your entrance before sinking a finger in to the knuckle. Your entire body reacts to the sudden intrusion, your teeth digging into your lip, toes curling into the comforter below you. “You’ve never been with anyone before, right? Let alone an alpha.” Kylo grunts, watching the way slick coats his palm, his finger repeatedly disappearing into your hot pussy with rhythmic movements. You manage to shake your head, eyes shut tight, mouth dropped open in pleasure. “Saving yourself just for me, hm?”

“Y-yes- Kylo- please, more-“ You choke out, your hips rolling with his thrusts, chasing the friction. You easily adjusted to just the one, your heat making you pliant and eager. He hums at that, complying with your request, a second finger filling your pussy. You cry out at the pleasant burn, at the way he scissors your plush walls, stretching you nicely for his cock that’s straining against his pants.

His free hand shoves your tank top up and over your head, pinching a nipple between the pads of his fingers at the same time his thumb finds your clit. The sound you make may be the best thing Kylo’s ever heard, all whiny and high pitched as your muscles tense with pleasure. You can feel a pressure building in your gut, one that threatens to release as he palms your breasts and rubs vicious circles on that bundle of nerves. He loves seeing you so lost in your need, so dependent on him to snuff out the fire of your heat. Your scent shifts with your oncoming orgasm, becoming almost sickly sweet, and beneath it Kylo can smell the way his own scent has already intertwined with yours.

Your head falls back with a sob as your whole body bunches up, your release falling over you like a wave. He relishes in the way your cum covers his hand, your cunt squeezing his fingers. He tugs you even closer to claim your mouth, to lick the taste of you from behind your teeth, drinking you like the finest wine.

Your orgasm gives you just a moment to breathe, a second of clarity in the storm that is your heat. You’ve never felt such intense relief before, your body tingling from the aftermath. However, you can still feel the warmth licking at the bottom of your spine, a beast ready to rear its head at a moments notice. You know it won’t be fully satiated until you’re plugged with a knot, claimed in one of the most primal ways possible. Kylo knows it too, probably better than you do, his cock aching to be inside you, to fill you with his cum and keep it there.

Both of his hands grip your waist, moving you over, repositioning you so you’re lying on your stomach, knees beneath you and ass in the air. You don’t even resist, letting him do whatever he wants with you in your post-orgasmic haze. “My pretty girl,” Kylo murmurs, running a palm along the cheek of your ass, his thumb separating the folds of your pussy to see the mess you’ve made. Slick coats your thighs, runs down your cunt in small dribbles, soaking the blankets below you.

Your nails dig into the comforter in anticipation when you hear the rustling of fabric behind you, the sound of a zipper pulled down. Kylo groans when his cock is finally freed, painfully hard with precum beading on the tip. He pumps himself a few times with the hand he’d fingered you with, coating his length with your release, the sight making his breath catch. You whimper when you feel his shaft press against your pussy, tensing as his tip breaches your entrance, sinking in so, so very slow.

The stretch of his cock is almost too much, filling you more than you thought possible, forcing your legs further apart to accommodate. His warm, calloused palm runs up and down your back. “Breathe, omega. You can take me, I know you can. You were made for it.” Kylo says, the ends of his words cracking when he feels the way your pussy is pulling him in, hot and wet and greedy. His body bends over yours, his strong arms caging you in on either side just as he bottoms out. His intoxicating scent wraps around you like a noose, your mouth dropped open but no sound able to come out, his cock having punched all the air from your lungs.

“Fuck- so good for me-“ Kylo moans, sweaty forehead pressed to your shoulder, relishing in the feel of you, of his omega. The alpha in him swells with pride at getting to claim you, at being the first and the last to ever do so. He’ll fill you again and again, get you pregnant, make you smell like him inside and out so every other alpha in the damn galaxy knows who you belong to. The thought makes him groan in satisfaction, his lips finding your gland and sucking it into his mouth as his hips shift experimentally.

Your back arches to meet his chest, mewling for more, desperate for the heavy drag of his thick cock against your walls. He starts easy, slow thrusts where he draws all the way out before sinking in to the hilt. He’s never felt something this divine, his mind swimming as if drunk on your heat. Nothing has ever been this right before, like his connection to you is written into his blood, the Force and something deeper binding you together. He knows you feel it too, your emotions and thoughts shared, tied together with an invisible string.

He fucks you in earnest now, his thrusts snappier, the degenerate sounds of your slick being sloshed around by his cock filling the small space of the closet. There’s nowhere that isn’t full of Kylo, all of your senses knowing just him; his scent, his breathy moans and gasps, his body pressed against yours so all you feel is him. Tears stain your cheeks, another orgasm quickly building inside of you, growing each time he hits that spongy spot at the top of your walls.

“Gonna give you my pups- fuck- keep you here with me, sweetheart, keep you full. I’m all you fucking need.” Kylo snarls close to your ear, once again kissing at your gland, never able to leave it alone for long.

You barely manage to nod. “Y-yes- please, alpha-“

He groans at his designation, at the feral tone of it. He snakes an arm under you to rub his fingers against your clit, encouraging you to reach your peak a second time like a reward. It isn’t hard with how sensitive you are and you bury your face in the blankets, trying to muffle your cry as you cum around his length. Kylo nearly doubles over from the way you grip him, your pussy fluttering against his cock, slick and cum gushing out and smearing along his pants. “That’s it- so fucking good, sweetheart-“ He manages to get out.

You whine at the way he still brutally thrusts into your abused pussy, pleasure sparking within you like a frayed wire, your arms and legs twitching with aftershocks. Your mind is nothing but a chant of good alpha, my alpha, bite me, claim me, strong alpha, any other rational thoughts fucked out of you. The feeling of it is borderline overwhelming, so much so that you instinctually try to claw yourself away from him, your nails scrabbling desperately at the comforter underneath you. Kylo notices immediately, his hands coming to tightly grip your waist, tugging you back into him with a displeased rumble sounding in his throat. He further curls himself over you, using the full pressure of his body to completely pin you down so you have no choice but to take his cock as deep as you can, his tip kissing your cervix again and again.

Your vision waters, your moans become obscenely louder and Kylo revels in it, his nose buried in the crook of your neck so he can breathe you in. “My sweet omega, perfect omega…” He pants against your skin, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down your back. He rumbles again, his scent spiking with something heady and spicy—something so possessive it threatens to choke you. Your pussy throbs and oozes more slick around him in response. “Trying to run from me… you’re mine now, omega, mine.”

He gets his point across with harsher thrusts, steadily growing more erratic as he nears his release. Your own isn’t too far off—for the third time. You can feel his knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock, something like fear spiking in your chest over how big it’ll be, but Kylo’s given you no chance of escape. You’ve surrendered yourself to him completely, to your need for each other, to your mate that you didn’t know existed until a day prior. The noises you manage are a garbled mess of lust, of overstimulated pleasure bordering on begging for mercy as you cum once more.

Kylo merely kisses away your tears, silently praising how good you are, this last orgasm taking everything out of you and drawing his own out of him too. He thrusts once, twice, three times before he groans loud, his fat knot at last locking in to your pussy. You do a full body shudder when you feel the heat of his cum coating your walls, rope after rope filling you so completely you barely feel like you have room to breathe. You try to swallow down the air that you need, Kylo doing the same above you. Both of you are utterly spent, and your heat has finally calmed with his claim inside of you. It leaves you feeling exhausted but also satisfied, something you haven’t felt in a long time.

Kylo’s kisses are gentle along your neck and shoulders, but you nearly get sent into a panic when you feel him begin to move you. “Relax. You’ll like this better.” He tells you. You try to be good and let him shift you around, even as every limb aches in protest and it tugs on his knot firmly stuck in your cunt. He rests against the left wall, situating you in his lap so you’re basically sitting on his cock, keeping him impossibly deep inside you. You let out a small moan when a fresh spurt of his cum releases from the stimulation of his knot while his fingers dig into your waist.

He brushes your hair back from where it’d stuck to your face with sweat, holding his hand against your cheek so he can look at you. You lean into his touch, eyes closing, too tired to hold up your own weight, feeling like you need to sleep for the next ten years. “Beautiful.” Kylo mutters, his lips reverent when he kisses from between your breasts, across your gland, and up your neck to your lips. It’s nothing like the kisses from before which were hungry and desperate, instead this one is soft, loving, claiming you in a different way.

He nuzzles against your jaw when he separates from you, basking in your scent. “You need to eat before you fall asleep.” He says, forcing you to stay awake despite your struggle against it. “I know you didn’t before. You need to keep your strength.” You grumble a response, cracking your eyes open to find a plate sat to your left. You’re confused about how it got there before you remember Kylo’s weird Force abilities or whatever they’re called, letting him manipulate things in the space around him. He must’ve brought it in here when you weren’t looking.

It’s a simple plate with a mixture of fruits, cheeses, and pieces of bread, something easy to start so you don’t get sick. He’ll make sure you have a proper meal later, when you can think more clearly and you aren’t stuck together. He watches as you pick at the food, choosing whatever looks best, soothing the sharpest edges of your appetite. It makes him happy to see you eat, to know his mate is taken care of and getting the proper nutrition you desperately need. Healthy mate for strong pups, the alpha in him whispers, his teeth gritting together when he cums again as a result.

He brings you a bottle of water too, making you drink the whole thing because of how dangerous dehydration can be for omegas during a heat. It’s shocking to you how easy it is to get basic necessities like food and water in this place after having to struggle for them your entire life on Yvelo II. You’ve never felt this pampered before, this safe and comfortable and cared for. You know it’s because of the alpha before you, your alpha.

You can’t help but reach your hands out, running them through his sweat slicked hair. He seems to preen at your attention, his eyes closing in contentment. Even in this moment of peace, you can’t ignore the thing that’s been gnawing at you ever since he knotted you. You bite the inside of your cheek, rolling the question around in your head. Kylo makes a grunting noise at you, like telling you to just spit it out already. You’ve clearly forgotten again that he can see inside your mind. He wants you to say it though, which makes your cheeks flush a little. “Why didn’t you mark me?”

His eyes open at that as he hums, studying your face. He stops your hand midway through his hair, instead bringing it to his mouth so he can kiss your rough and calloused palm. He nuzzles against it, his sigh tickling your skin. “It seemed like a lot for your first time.” He explains. His gaze shifts to where your mating bite will be, as if imagining the indent of his teeth there. “But I will next heat.” He says it with such finality and determination that it makes you shiver, a familiar warmth bubbling in your blood. If you weren’t so tired and still locked onto his knot, you’d probably go back into heat right then. He smirks at that, knowing exactly how his words affect you.

His arms come up to encircle you, bringing you forward until you’re laying on his chest. You immediately sink into his hold, your head resting nicely beneath his chin. You can hear his heartbeat thrumming steady and strong in your ear, a soothing melody that has your eyes falling shut. Kylo brings his cape over with a simple motion of his finger, wrapping it around you so you’re encased in his warmth, his scent. He says your name softly, like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to break.

His scent drifted over you in the stairwell: warm pine, clean steel, something comforting and strong that settled deep in your lungs.

Your reaction was immediate and mortifying. Heat flared low in your belly, slick rushing hot and sudden between your thighs until you had to press your legs together to hide the way your panties were already soaked through. You ducked your head, cheeks burning, praying he hadn’t noticed.

But Bucky had.

His breath caught for the briefest second, blue eyes softening as they met yours. He didn’t say a word about it just murmured, “Anytime you need help I’m right here,” voice tender enough to make your heart stutter. Then he stepped back, giving you space, hands loose at his sides like he was proving he’d never take more than you offered.

Since then, you’d turned into someone you barely recognized, shy on the outside, filthy-minded on the inside, desperate for any scrap of closeness he’d allow.

In the laundry room you started timing your visits to his, wearing soft little shorts that rode up when you bent over, pretending you didn’t know exactly what you were doing. You’d brush past him too close on purpose, letting your vanilla-honey scent bloom thick and sweet in the humid air. He’d go still every time, folding a towel with careful movements but you could see the way his throat worked when he breathed you in.

You weren’t bold, you blushed just thinking about it but the ache between your legs made you reckless. You’d linger by the dryer, bending slow, thighs slick and trembling because you knew he could smell how wet you were. Once, a helpless little moan slipped out when another pulse of slick soaked through your shorts, leaving a damp spot you couldn’t hide.

Bucky’s soft inhale was the only warning before his quiet voice reached you. “Sweetheart… you okay?” So gentle, so concerned, like he thought you might be hurting. His eyes were dark but his expression was all worried kindness, metal hand curled loosely at his side so he wouldn’t scare you. You wanted to drop to your knees and beg him to do something about the mess you’d made of yourself.

The elevator rides were torture you inflicted on both of you. You’d stand just close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his chest, breathing him in until you were dizzy. Your body didn’t care that you were shy, it reacted anyway, nipples tight against your shirt, fresh slick coating your thighs every time the car jerked. You’d bite your lip to keep quiet but sometimes a tiny, needy sound escaped anyway.

He never crowded you. Always stood with his hands behind his back or gripping the rail, giving you every inch of space. But once, after a particularly desperate whimper left your throat, he leaned in just enough to murmur against your hair, “I’ve got you. Whatever you need, I’m right here.” The words were so soft, so patient, they made you throb harder, made you want to turn around and rub yourself against him like a cat in heat.

Nights were when your restraint cracked completely. Through the thin wall you could hear him, quiet at first then the soft rustle of sheets, the low, helpless groan he tried to muffle in his pillow. The slow, slick sound of his hand moving over his cock, careful even when he was alone, like he was afraid of waking you. You’d press your ear to the wall, legs spread wide, fingers plunging deep into your dripping cunt because you couldn’t stop yourself.

You’d fuck yourself hard and fast, chasing the rhythm of his strokes, imagining his gentle hands instead, how careful he’d be, how he’d whisper sweet things while he split you open. Sometimes you heard him say your name, so soft and reverent it sounded like a prayer.

“God baby… wanna take care of you… wanna be good for you…” It sent you over every time, thighs shaking as you came messily around your fingers, biting the pillow to stay quiet while slick soaked the sheets beneath you.

You were the one burning up with filthy, desperate need.

He was the one holding back with endless patience and sweetness, waiting for you to ask.

And every night you came listening to him fall apart so gently on the other side of the wall, you wondered how much longer you could stand not begging him to finally give you what you both wanted.

Until tonight.

Your heat had crested into something unbearable, a vicious, clawing thing that left you stripped bare on the living-room floor, legs splayed wide, thighs glazed with hours of slick. Fingers weren’t enough anymore, three buried to the knuckles, thrusting frantically, chasing a relief that wouldn’t come.

The vibrator buzzed uselessly beside you; even the pillow you’d humped raw couldn’t soothe the hollow, aching throb deep in your cunt. You were sobbing openly now, broken pleas spilling into the empty apartment.

“Bucky… please… need you inside me… need your knot… need your pups…”

The words tore out of you without shame, loud enough to carry through the thin wall.

On the other side, Bucky broke.

He’d been fighting it for weeks, every gentle, devoted inch of himself locked down tight. Every time your scent thickened in the hallway, every time you bent over in the laundry room and he caught the shine of slick on your thighs, every muffled whimper he heard at night, he’d gone back to his apartment and stroked himself slow, almost reverent, whispering your name while he imagined sliding into you gentle and deep, imagined filling you so carefully you’d feel safe and cherished while he put his pups in you.

He was obsessed with it. Couldn’t think of anything else. The thought of your belly rounding soft with his child, of your body changing because of him, because he’d taken care of you so perfectly, it lived behind his eyes every second of every day. He wanted to be gentle. Wanted to be good. Wanted to earn the right to breed you by proving he’d never hurt you.

But tonight your scent flooded the hallway like a wave of pure, desperate heat and your broken cries punched straight through his chest.

Three soft, urgent knocks sounded at your door, too controlled to be anything but him.

“Doll?” His voice came through the wood, low and trembling, thick with worry and rut. “Sweetheart, I- I heard you cryin’. You okay? Can I… can I come in? Just to check on you, I swear I’ll be good-”

You scrambled up on shaky legs, slick pouring down your thighs in fresh rivulets, and flung the door open.

He looked wrecked in the most heartbreaking way: hair falling into dark, pleading eyes, chest heaving under a damp T-shirt, sweats tented obscenely with the thick line of his cock, a wet patch spreading at the tip. His scent rolled over you, warm pine, clean steel, and the heavy, drugging musk of an alpha deep in rut, but his hands were open at his sides, fingers flexing like he was terrified to reach for you.

“Oh baby,” he whispered, voice cracking as he took in the sight of you, naked, trembling, drenched. “You’re hurtin’ so bad… I’m sorry I waited so long. I didn’t wanna scare you…”

You lunged at him with a desperate whine, wrapping your arms around his neck, grinding your soaked cunt against the ridge of his cock through the fabric. “Bucky please- need you now. Need you to fuck me, need you to breed me, please-”

He caught you easily, lifting you against his chest like you weighed nothing, metal arm cradling your back, flesh hand cupping your ass with reverent care but the rut roaring through him finally snapped the last thread of patience.

He couldn’t wait another second, couldn’t make it the few extra steps to the couch.

With a low, trembling growl he sank to his knees right there in the entryway and lowered you gently to the floor, laying you down like you were still the most precious thing in the world, even as his hands shook with the need to claim you now.

“I’ve got you omega,” he murmured, voice shaking as he peeled off his shirt, revealing miles of scarred muscle. “Gonna take such good care of you, I promise. Wanna make you feel safe while I… while I give you everything.”

He settled between your thighs, eyes locked on yours and slid into you slow, so achingly slow, inch by thick inch, groaning soft and reverent as your slick walls fluttered around him.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling gentle and deep. “So warm… so tight… been dreamin’ about this pussy every night doll. Dreamin’ about putting my pups right here-” His flesh hand slid to your lower belly, pressing lightly, possessively. “Wanna fill you up so gentle you feel every drop… wanna watch you grow round with me…”

The sweetness of it, the devotion in his voice, only made you wilder. You clawed at his back, heels digging into his ass, trying to pull him deeper, faster.

“Harder,” you begged, voice raw. “Bucky please- need it rough, need you to ruin me, need you to breed me like you mean it-”

He froze, hips stuttering, eyes wide with sudden fear. “No baby- no, I can’t.” His voice cracked, raw and vulnerable.

“I… I haven’t been with anyone since the forties doll. Back then I was just a man- had a few sweet omegas, even knotted and bred a couple before the war took me. But after I fell, after Hydra… nothing. Not a single person in seventy years. They stole every chance, turned me into a weapon instead of a mate. I’ve never knotted anyone since, never bred anyone since and now my rut’s hittin’ harder than it ever has. You’re so small, so perfect, and I’m terrified I’ll lose control and hurt you. I couldn’t live with myself if I ever hurt you sweetheart.”

The confession spilled out of him like it had been locked behind his teeth for weeks, his blue eyes glassy with fear and longing. He rested his forehead against yours, trembling. “I want to give you pups more than I want to breathe, sweetheart. But I need to be gentle. Need to keep you safe.”

You sobbed, clenching hard around his cock, grinding up against him in filthy desperation. “You won’t hurt me. I trust you. I need it alpha- need you to lose control, need you to fuck me full of your pups, please-”

His breath hitched, a low, helpless sound tearing out of him. You felt his restraint crack, felt the tremor in his thighs as he fought it.

“Please,” you whispered again, nipping his jaw, licking the sweat from his throat. “Be rough with me. I’m begging you.”

Something shattered behind his eyes.

With a broken groan he pulled back and slammed home, hard, deep, perfect. Your back arched off the floor as he set a punishing rhythm, hips snapping, metal arm braced beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, flesh hand gripping your thigh to spread you wider.

“That what you need, sweet girl?” he rasped, voice ragged with filth. “Need your alpha to fuck you raw after all these years? Need me to breed this pretty pussy till it’s dripping with me?”

“Yes- yes- harder!”

He gave it to you. Pounded into you like he was trying to crawl inside your skin, cock dragging over every sensitive spot, balls slapping wet against your ass. Every thrust shoved a filthy squelch from your soaked cunt, slick splashing onto his thighs.

“Gonna knot you so deep,” he panted, eyes fixed on where you were joined, watching himself disappear into you over and over. “First knot in almost a century baby, all for you. Gonna lock you to me and pump you so full of cum you’ll be carrying my pups by morning- fuck, I can’t wait to see you swollen doll, can’t wait to take care of you while you grow ‘em-”

You shattered around him with a scream, pussy clamping viciously, milking him as you came in messy, squirting waves.

He followed with a hoarse cry, hips grinding deep as his knot swelled huge and sudden, popping past your pussy and locking tight. The stretch burned white-hot, perfect, and then he was coming, endless thick ropes flooding your womb, spilling hot and heavy, overflowing around the knot in creamy rivulets that soaked you both.

He collapsed carefully, rolling so you were draped over his chest, still impaled, knot throbbing with every aftershock. His arms wrapped around you gentle again, metal fingers stroking your spine, flesh hand cradling the back of your head.

“Good girl,” he whispered, voice soft and wrecked, kissing your temple, your cheeks, the tears on your lashes. “Took me so perfect… my first knot in seventy years and you made it feel like heaven. Gonna keep you knotted all night, baby. Gonna breed you again as soon as it goes down. Wanna put so many pups in you… wanna love you through every single heat.”

You nuzzled into his neck, breathing him in, your body finally, blissfully full.

And somewhere in the haze, you felt his knot pulse once more, another gentle, possessive spurt deep inside as he murmured against your skin, reverent and obsessed:

“Mine now, sweetheart. After all this time waiting… gonna spend the rest of my life keeping this belly round.”

You wake slow, aching in every possible way, sweet, filthy, perfect.

The hardwood is cool against your cheek, but Bucky’s body is a furnace curled around you from behind, heavy and protective. His flesh arm is draped over your waist like an anchor, metal hand resting low on your belly, fingers splayed wide and gentle, as if he’s already cradling something precious that isn’t there yet. The air is thick with the two of you: warm pine, steel, vanilla-honey, and the unmistakable proof of last night, hours of knotting, breeding, claiming, coating your skin, the floor, everything.

His cock is still inside you, half-hard and nestled deep, plugging the slow trickle of his own spend so nothing escapes. Every tiny shift of his hips makes a soft, wet sound and sends a lazy throb through your overworked walls. You’re sore, swollen, utterly wrecked… and your heat purrs at the feel of him anyway, slick already gathering fresh and helpless.

He stirs with a low, sleepy hum, nose burying in your hair to breathe you in like you’re oxygen.

“Mornin’ pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice gravel-soft and shamelessly adoring. His metal thumb strokes slow circles over your lower belly, reverent. “Sleep okay with my cock keepin’ you full all night?”

You whimper, half-embarrassed, half-desperate and rock back against him on instinct. The motion drags his thickening length through your messy heat and he groans like it hurts, so good it hurts.

“God, doll,” he whispers against your bond mark, lips brushing the tender, crusted bite with heartbreaking gentleness. “You’re still drippin’ me. Kept every drop right where it belongs, didn’t you? Good omega… best omega.”

His flesh hand slides up to cup one heavy, aching breast, thumb brushing your nipple so tenderly you shiver. “These are gonna get so full for me,” he says, quiet and certain, like he’s picturing it already.

“Gonna swell up sweet and heavy, leak milk down your pretty belly while I keep you knotted and happy. Can’t wait to taste you, gonna suck you soft and slow every night, keep you feelin’ safe and spoiled while our pups grow.”

The words are pure filth but his tone is pure devotion, soft, shameless, utterly obsessed. He rocks into you lazy and deep, stirring last night’s loads with slow, churning thrusts that make obscene, wet sounds in the quiet morning.

“Feel that little swell already?” he asks, metal palm pressing gently, possessively over your abdomen.

“That’s me, baby. All that cum I gave you, sittin’ deep, takin’ root. Been dreamin’ about this since the day you moved in, puttin’ my pups in you, watchin’ you bloom. Never thought I’d get the chance again… not after everything. But you-”

His voice cracks just a little, raw with wonder. “You let me in. Let me love you like this.”

You clench around him involuntarily, fresh slick coating his cock and he moans your name like a prayer.

“Still so greedy for me,” he chuckles, warm and fond, hips rolling a little faster now.

“My sweet, perfect girl, heat all burned out yet still beggin’ for more. Don’t worry, doll. I’m gonna give you everything. Gonna knot you soft and slow this morning, pump you full again till you’re overflowin’. Then I’ll carry you to bed, clean you up gentle, feed you breakfast with you in my lap… and knot you again after.”

He nips your ear, voice dropping to that shameless, loving growl. “Gonna keep this belly round for years, sweetheart. One litter after another, till you’re sick of bein’ spoiled and pregnant and mine. But I don’t think you ever will be.”

You come with a broken little cry, fluttering weakly around him and he follows right after, knot swelling slow and careful, locking you together as he spills deep with soft, reverent groans. His arms tighten around you, metal hand still cradling your belly like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

“There we go,” he whispers, lips dragging slow and hot over the fresh bond mark, then your shoulder, your damp temple. His voice is a low, filthy-sweet rasp right against your ear.

“One more thick, hot load pumped straight into your perfect little womb for our pups, pretty baby. Fuck… feel how full you are? This gorgeous, greedy pussy still milkin’ every drop outta me, drippin’ my cum down your thighs like the beautiful mess you are. Best thing I’ve ever felt- this tight, silky heaven wrapped around my knot, takin’ everything I give you, lettin’ me love you deep and dirty and so fuckin’ proper.”

He stays buried deep, knot pulsing gently, and holds you like he’ll never let go.

You’re both still filthy, crusted, sticky, gloriously wrecked, sprawled together on the living-room floor where you passed out knotted and spent. The hardwood is cool beneath you, scattered blankets and discarded clothes forming a makeshift nest, the air thick with the heavy scent of rut, slick and alpha cum.

Every time you shift in his arms, trying to get comfortable against his chest, flakes of his dried spend drift off your inner thighs like snow and the sight makes him growl low and possessive against your neck, metal hand tightening gently over your lower belly while his flesh hand slides down to cup your swollen pussy, thumb tracing the sticky mess still leaking slow from you.

“Can’t have my seed wastin’ on the floor, pretty girl,” he rasps, voice rough with leftover rut and pure hunger. “Every drop belongs right back inside this perfect little cunt.”

The shower’s already steaming when he steps in. His cock swings heavy between his thighs, thick, flushed, half-hard again like it never learned the meaning of enough. He steps in behind you, metal arm locking gentle around your waist to keep you steady while hot water pours over you both, rinsing away the crusted mess but doing nothing to ease the raw, throbbing ache deep in your pussy.

“Spread those pretty legs for me doll,” he rasps against your neck, voice rough with leftover rut and pure adoration.

You obey instantly, always instantly for him, thighs falling open under the spray. His flesh hand slides down your belly, cups your swollen, puffy pussy like it’s the most precious thing he’s ever touched. Two fingers part your folds slow and reverent, letting the water flush out the thick, creamy ropes of his spend still plugged inside you. They drip slow and obscene, swirling down the drain in filthy strands, and he watches like a man possessed.

“Fuck, look at that,” he groans, voice shaking with awe. “Bred you so deep it’s still pourin’ out hours later. My good girl, kept me locked in all night, didn’t let a single drop escape till now.” His metal thumb spreads you wider, cool plates against your fever-hot skin, letting more cum leak free. “Don’t worry, baby. Gonna stuff you full again soon as we’re clean. Can’t stand seein’ this perfect pussy empty.”

He soaps his big hands until they’re foamy, then washes you slow, almost worshipful, palms gliding over your heavy tits, down the curve of your belly, between your trembling thighs. But the gentleness only lasts so long. Two thick, soapy fingers push inside you without warning, scissoring deep to clean every inch of your used walls, thumb circling your swollen clit until your knees buckle and you sob his name.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he whispers, metal arm banding tight across your chest to hold you up. “Just cleanin’ my mess outta you… so I can make a brand-new one. Gonna keep this greedy cunt drippin’ me forever.”

You come hard and sudden, pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers, squirting slick and water down his wrist in messy pulses. The sound you make is broken, desperate and it rips a filthy-sweet groan from his throat. His cock is rock-hard now, grinding slow against the curve of your ass like it’s begging.

He rinses you thoroughly, really thoroughly, then wraps you in the fluffiest towel he found, carries you back to the kitchen still dripping. Sets you on the counter, spreads your thighs wide just to look, eyes blown black with that same breeding obsession.

“Stay right there, pretty girl. Don’t move an inch.”

He disappears for a second, rummaging through the scattered clothes on the floor, then comes back with his shirt, the same one he’d worn last night, still carrying the warm scent of pine, steel and him.

He stands in front of you, eyes dark and hungry as he slides it over your head himself, guiding your arms through the sleeves with careful hands. The fabric falls soft and loose, brushing your thighs as he tugs it down until it barely skims the curve of your ass.

No panties, of course not. He smooths the hem with possessive palms, fingers lingering on your bare skin underneath, a low growl rumbling in his chest.

“Never again, pretty girl,” he murmurs, voice rough and reverent. “Don’t want anything between me and this perfect little pussy. Wanna be able to touch you, taste you, slide inside you whenever I need. And I’m gonna need you a lot.”

Then he makes breakfast, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm flexing every time he flips bacon or pours coffee. You sit on the stool, legs swinging, feeling the slow, steady seep of leftover cum still leaking out of you onto the wood beneath your bare pussy. Every shift makes you clench, makes more drip out and the knowledge that he can smell it, that he knows, has you squirming, thighs rubbing together, heat already simmering again.

He plates pancakes drowning in syrup, crispy bacon, fluffy eggs and sits right beside you, metal arm draped possessive over the back of your chair. You’re halfway through a bite when the question slips out soft and curious.

“So… you really hadn’t fucked anyone since the 40’s?” you ask, fork hovering. “Like… not once? What about your ruts? How did you survive them alone?”

He freezes, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. Then he sets it down slow, turns to you with raw, unguarded eyes.

“Dead serious, doll,” he says, voice low and rough with memory. “Not a single pussy since 1943. Hydra kept me frozen most of the time, when they woke me, I was nothin’ but a weapon. No relief, no omega, no softness. Just blood and missions and ice.”

His metal hand slides up your bare thigh under the counter, cool fingers tracing the fresh trail of slick already coating your skin.

“After I got free… ruts hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt. Worst pain I’ve ever known, worse than fallin’ off that train, worse than losin’ the arm. I’d lock myself away, chain my ankles if I had to. Jerked off till my cock bled, till I passed out in a puddle of my own spend. Bit through my own lip, dented concrete with this hand tryin’ not to break out and hurt someone.”

His flesh hand cups your jaw, thumb stroking your lower lip with heartbreaking tenderness.

“Then you moved in across the hall,” he rasps, eyes darkening with devotion. “First whiff of your heat and I nearly tore the building down to get to you. Spent weeks strokin’ myself raw every time you walked past, smellin’ like warm vanilla and needy, dripping cunt. Thought I’d lose my mind if I didn’t bury myself in you soon.”

He leans closer, metal fingers slipping between your legs again, finding you soaked and open and aching. Two slide in easy, slow, possessive pumps that make you gasp and drop your fork.

“Last night was the first time in seventy goddamn years I got to sink into a real omega pussy,” he growls against your mouth, voice thick with love and filth. “First knot. First breeding. First time comin’ inside somethin’ so warm and wet and beggin’ for my pups. You took every drop baby-milked me dry, let me flood this perfect little womb till it overflowed.”

His thumb finds your clit, circling slow and relentless while his fingers fuck you lazy and deep right there at the breakfast table.

“Now I got this sloppy, greedy cunt leakin’ for me again before the plates are even empty,” he whispers, reverent and shameless. “Gonna spend the rest of my life makin’ up for every lonely rut- gonna knot you every heat, every day, every time you look at me like that. Gonna keep you stuffed full, belly swollen, tits heavy and leakin’ milk down this pretty body while I pump another litter into you.”

You moan, loud, broken, desperate, clenching hard around his fingers, hips rocking shamelessly into his hand. Breakfast is forgotten. You’re already dripping down his wrist again, thighs trembling, heat flaring hot and hungry because it’s him because it’s Bucky looking at you like you’re his whole world and talking like he’s going to spend forever proving it.

He kisses you deep and dirty, tasting like coffee and bacon and pure alpha love.

“You gave me everything, omega,” he whispers against your swollen lips, voice rough with awe and possession. “Ended a hundred-year drought with the wettest, neediest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever dreamed of. And I’m gonna keep it soaked, bred, and happy for the rest of my life.”

It’s a few weeks later, New Year’s Eve. The little drugstore test is still on the bathroom counter, two pink lines glowing like a promise. You’re barely four weeks along but your body already knows. Your breasts are heavier, tender and swollen, nipples darker and so sensitive that even the brush of Bucky’s dog tags against them makes you shiver. A soft, constant warmth hums low in your belly, a permanent simmer of need that has you wet almost all the time now.

Bucky hasn’t let you more than ten feet away from him since you showed him the test. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, sweats slung low, metal arm catching the low light. You stand between his thighs wearing nothing but his old dog tags and a pair of his boxers rolled at the waist. Your belly is still flat but the way he looks at it, like he can already see the curve, already feel his pups moving, makes heat pool between your legs.

“God, doll,” he whispers, voice thick with wonder and something deeper, softer. Both hands, warm flesh and cool metal, slide up your thighs, over your hips, until they settle gently over your lower abdomen. His thumbs trace slow, reverent circles right where everything is changing. “You’re really carryin’ my baby. My seed took… first night I ever knotted anyone in seventy years, and it took.”

He leans forward, presses his lips to your belly in a kiss so tender it makes your eyes burn. Inhales deep, nose brushing your skin. “Smell so sweet already,” he murmurs against you. “Like warm vanilla and milk and mine. Fuck, baby… you’re perfect.”

His flesh hand slips lower, under the waistband of the boxers, finding you soaked, slick coating your thighs in a constant, helpless trickle. He groans softly when his fingers glide through it, metal arm tightening gently around your waist to steady you as two thick fingers sink inside slow and careful.

“Still so wet for me,” he breathes, pumping gentle, curling just enough to make your breath hitch. “This pretty pussy’s already flutterin’ around my fingers… and you’re only a month along. Gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart.”

He eases his fingers free, brings them to his lips and licks them clean with a quiet, reverent hum, eyes never leaving yours. Then he stands, towering over you for a moment before guiding you gently down onto the bed, onto your back, pillows propped behind you so you’re comfortable.

“Gonna love you slow tonight,” he promises, voice low and rough with adoration. He peels the boxers off your legs, settles between your thighs with infinite care, like you’re made of glass and gold. His cock is heavy, flushed, leaking at the tip, but he doesn’t rush. Just drags the head through your slick folds once, twice, coating himself, before pressing in, slow, steady, watching your face the entire time.

You both sigh when he bottoms out. He stills, lets you adjust, forehead pressed to yours.

“Feel okay, pretty girl?” he whispers, brushing a kiss to your lips, your cheek, the corner of your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much. You’re carryin’ my pups now- I’ll be so gentle, I swear.”

You nod, threading fingers through his hair, pulling him closer. “Feels perfect, alpha.”

The word makes him shudder. He starts moving, long, deep, unhurried strokes that drag over every sensitive spot inside you, slow enough that every ridge and vein of his cock feels like a caress. His metal hand cradles the back of your head; his flesh hand slides up your side to cup one swollen breast, thumb stroking over the dark, aching nipple with heartbreaking tenderness.

“These are gettin’ so full already,” he murmurs, voice raw with awe. He lowers his head, lips brushing the curve of your breast, tongue flicking gentle over the peak. Then he closes his mouth around it, soft, warm suction that makes you arch and whimper. He suckles slow and careful, like he’s already coaxing milk that isn’t there yet, like he’s memorizing the weight and feel of you changing for him.

You moan his name, hips rocking up to meet his gentle thrusts, slick dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. He switches to the other breast, giving it the same reverent attention, sucking softly, tongue swirling, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp but never enough to hurt.

“Gonna do this every day,” he whispers against your skin, lips shiny, eyes dark and devoted. “Suck these pretty tits till they’re leakin’ for me. Then I’ll lick every drop off your belly before I kiss my way lower and taste how wet you get because of me.”

His rhythm stays slow, deep, loving, every thrust a promise, every pull of his mouth on your nipple a vow. Outside, fireworks start popping as midnight nears but inside it’s just the soft, wet sounds of him loving you, your quiet moans, his whispered praise.

“Come for me when the new year starts baby,” he breathes, thumb finding your clit to circle gentle and steady. “Come on your alpha’s cock while I’m suckin’ these gorgeous tits and buried deep in the pussy that’s growin’ my baby.”

The first big fireworks boom over Brooklyn just as you fall apart, pussy fluttering soft and sweet around him, a gentle, rolling orgasm that leaves you trembling and breathless. He groans your name like a prayer, hips grinding deep as his knot swells slow and careful, locking you together without a hint of pain. Warm pulses of cum spill into you, gentle and endless, his body curled protectively over yours.

He stays on his elbows so his weight never presses your belly, lips returning to your breasts, suckling softly through the aftershocks, kissing every inch of tender skin like he’s worshipping the changes already happening.

“Happy New Year pretty mama,” he whispers, voice thick with love, metal hand splayed gentle over your abdomen, flesh hand stroking your hair. “Best year of my life starts tonight, with you pregnant, tits heavy in my mouth, pussy soft and full of me. Gonna love you like this every single day. Gentle and slow and mine.”

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

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